


In Ordinary Time

by sfiddy



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Modern AU, Romance, Sweetness Follows, The Persian is a Neurologist, tragedy happens, why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2019-11-28 08:11:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18205838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: An accident alters the lives of Erik Brodeur and his casual friend, Dr. Nadir Khan.  Dr. Khan moves on, but Erik struggles until he hears a voice.After tragedy, Christine Daae finds herself stalled.  She struggles through a career and relationship drought until she finds a voice coach.The extraordinary journey to ordinary.Rating may change.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, I started this before I dreamed up Balcony Duet. At the time, I realized that this plot was bigger than I'd planned for and my feel for some characters (while still debatable) wasn't firm enough yet.
> 
> I'm taking another swing at it now!

Prologue

June 20-- (during the recession)

The Dean of the College of Engineering and the head of the School of Architecture shook hands with benevolent donors as excited upperclassmen, exhausted graduate students, and notable alumni were given tours of a brand new computer and maker lab. Press statements and departmental memos announced that the banks of high resolution 3D printers and design software would support a new wave in cross departmental collaboration and foster ties to the business community. 

In this economy, such donations were sought after and rare. 

The checks must have been quite large, too. It wasn’t often that entire sections of a university were turned into cocktail receptions. This one was complete with live music, recruiters conspicuously sniffing around the top students while local politicians and business leaders circled the bar together. 

Once he had a drink, Erik Brodeur skirted the noisy crowds and found his way to the string quartet. Though the architecture firm he worked for had donated, he had little interest in chatting up students. Not when he was trying to finish a huge project of his own, driving himself to exhaustion, and unlikely to give a good impression. Certainly not when there was music playing. Erik stood with a curving rock wall to his back to hear it better.

“I thought I might see you here,” said a voice at his side. “Have you renewed your tickets yet? I hate having new people around me at the symphony.”

“Good to see you Nadir,” Erik greeted and the two men shook hands. “And yes, I wouldn’t miss it. Your wife sounds great tonight.” 

Dr. Nadir Khan smiled at his wife as she slid her bow across the cello strings. “Rook enjoys these events. She loves the symphony, too, but she gets to play with just her favorites this way.

Erik glanced at the young violin player. “Favorites, huh? How old is he now? Fifteen?”

“A few weeks ago. He takes after Rook,” Nadir touched his forehead in a gesture of reverent gratitude before he continued. “She has been teaching him since he could hold a bow in his fist.”

In the flickering light of decorative torches, they listened as Nadir’s son tackled a brief solo, and applauded as he bowed shyly afterwards, all elbows and pink cheeks. 

“He’s very good, Nadir. You should be proud,” Erik said, stirring his cocktail.

“No man is as proud as I. They’re playing a duet next weekend, a wedding reception. You should come and hear them. Maybe bring a girl to dance with?” Nadir teased.

Erik raised an eyebrow and finished his drink. “I would, but some big installations are happening at the site next weekend. I’m going to be busy until the air handling is dealt with.” Just the thought made his insides curl. His designs had been fine, but there were already signs of trouble with some of the compromises on site. He rubbed his face with the heels of his hands, dreading the pre-dawn meetings and midnight phone calls to come.

Nadir clucked at him. “Lead architect, bah. I was married at your age. Even my days as an intern were not so brutal.”

“Thank you for the encouragement, Dr. Khan. It’s my first as a project lead, I’m the youngest they’ve ever had.” As the violin gave way to a sultry viola piece, Erik had a thought. “You know, there’s always a big party at a ribbon cutting. Do you think Rook might be interested in playing at the reception when my building is opened?”

“I’ll ask. I can’t imagine she’ll say no,” Nadir said with a nod. “Text me a date when you have one?”

“Will do. How’s the practice?”

“Good. I’ve teamed up with a dream team of surgeons who needed a neurologist. My caseload is larger these days but we may bring in another soon. I need someone to train.”

“Aren’t you a little young to retire?”

With a shrug, Nadir looked away from Erik to his wife and son. “If I train a replacement now, I can reduce my hours. I want to enjoy my family.” He turned back to Erik and mimicked drawing a bow over a violin. “Who knows, maybe Rook will teach me to play?”

Erik rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you your first lessons. I can’t let you embarrass yourself in front of her.” 

Nadir shook his head with a laugh. “You are so young, my friend. Love, like music, makes men fools or madmen.” He looked at his wife fondly. “I am gladly a fool for her.”

The quartet finished the piece and went to break. “I will see you at the next symphony concert, Erik! Good luck next week, and text me with a date!” 

Then, Nadir hurried away and gave his son and wife a hug before shaking hands with the other quartet players. 

Though Erik smiled, he rubbed at his chest and the tiny ache there. He worked more than sixty hours a week these days, and it left little time for companions of any kind, much less for a relationship anything like Nadir’s. The Persian might have been the most fortunate man Erik had ever met. 

As he waved goodbye and turned to leave, his eye was drawn to a pretty blonde who waved at him to join her. She turned out to be rather uninteresting, and left an impression that lasted no longer than it took to straighten his rumpled sheets the next day. With the month he was about to have, anything more would have been impossible.

…

August 20--

Late summer had dug in its heels and left the evening warmer than expected. In spite of the heat, a crowd milled about the doors of the small convention center, a marvel in miniature, and admired the curving entryway to the foyer. His careful design carried the sound of the quartet, led by Rook and her son, across the foyer and out the open doors to the courtyard. 

Erik stood away from the party, flipping through his sketchbook and doodles, occasionally holding up one drawing or another to compare to the final version. This marvelous evolution, the process right before his eyes in the shape of concrete and glass. So much like a song that builds from a single theme and grows, sprawling and entangled, into a whole symphony.

It had been rotten towards the end, with inspectors and their findings that had to be verified over and over. The contractors and their compromises, but he’d been assured it was resolved. No less than four hours a day had been devoted to just the kitchen and service corridors those last two weeks.

He closed up his notebook and tucked it into his scuffed leather drafting case. The big, flat portfolio was awkward to carry around but he couldn’t resist bringing it, not when he saw the site fully lit. He’d take it back to his car later.

Music floated on the warm breeze, and Erik walked back toward the entryway. Nadir’s son was playing his solo and Nadir smiled broadly as always. When he saw Erik, he exited the foyer and joined him in the courtyard.

“Well done, Erik,” he gestured towards the building. “You do nice work.”

“If you only knew the hell it took to get it done.”

Nadir chuckled and together the men walked toward the foyer. “I am a specialist in nerves and the brain. Give me some credit for understanding obsession. Besides, you missed a concert, so it must have been bad.”

With a tired sigh, Erik rubbed a hand down his face. “I was sorry to miss it.”

They arrived at the doors, and Nadir held one open. “Here, you can apologize to Rook by yourself. I have to get her bouquet from the car.”

Erik turned with a scowl. “Don’t you dare,” he managed, but Nadir was already striding away, laughing. Left to face Nadir’s formidable wife alone, Erik slapped on his most winning smile as the door swung closed again and tried to think of something charming to say. As he was about to reach for the door when he heard a strange whoosh.

Metallic clicks. More whoosh.

From the side of the building… his building. The kitchens and main air handling systems. 

Inside the foyer, Rook waved and gestured for him to join her and her son. Erik nodded and held up a finger. Rook smiled.

The metallic clicks and whooshing grew louder, then

_Boom!_

…


	2. Nothing But A Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath, and how we begin again.

Hot. Cold. Wet. Burns.

Every sound and touch was pain. He writhed on rough sheets and begged for the lights to be turned off but they were only be dimmed. Squeaking cart wheels electrified his spine and he quaked with every squalling turn. 

So cold. He could not sleep when he was cold.

“How are you feeling this afternoon, Mr. Brodeur? Hmm, you’re a little chilled, I’ll just--”

At the first touch of the delicate blanket, he screamed. The bed was warmed, but it felt like knives against his torn and sloughing skin. He’d burned his once hand cooking and thought that was agony. Now, nearly half his body was seared.

Something had gone wrong. Something horribly wrong. Oh god, why?

The door opened. Murmuring, people standing over him. Tiny shifts in the air made his flesh crawl.

“Mr. Brodeur, we’re going to give you a sedative to help you rest.”

…

September 20--

Erik cringed and closed his eyes when the door to his room opened. He’d bounced from rehabilitation to inpatient and back again until his head spun and no matter how many notes in his records, they always managed to make the first two days a living hell. He’d have to reeducate them. Again. 

The nurses would chatter as they checked him over, stomp everywhere in their heavy clogs, lock and unlock cabinets and slam them closed with a careless shove of the hip or adjust his clothing before warning him. He could not sleep, and had learned from experience that the auditory hallucinations set in after about a day, and visual after two days without sleep. Erik prepared to unload on the intruder.

Or perhaps… There was no clomping of loud soles, jangling keys, or screeching carts. No bright lights suddenly assaulted him, nor sharp clacking of instruments. 

Erik opened one bleary eye.

“How are you today, my friend?” Nadir asked softly. 

He trembled at the voice, but it passed. Like everything else. Erik gathered his voice into a croak. “I’m good.” His eyes pricked, one more discomfort, and his words came out in halting speech. “It’s good. To see you. Dr. Khan.”

Nadir tapped his tablet lightly. “And you. The nurses tell me you did not sleep last night?”

“No.” His head spun a bit from the sound of his own voice. Could feel himself shaking.

“It is normal to be nervous before surgery, my friend.”

“Not my first,” he sighed. “Why are you here?” The catch in Erik’s ravaged voice was pitiful. 

Nadir swallowed. “You were alone, my friend. No one should be alone like this.”

“You’re alone.” Erik could not hold back his tears. Oh god…

A light pat on his undamaged shoulder, a gentle touch that rattled through his bones and left him quivering. “Erik, the surgical team will be here soon. I wanted to wish you luck before they begin pre-op, and to say a prayer for you.” 

“Please, Nadir, please… I-” The salt would sting later, but the tears flowed.

“Shh, Erik.”

In the mad space of his whirling mind, Erik heard a delicate croon. Though no great talent, Nadir was a man who believed that he who sang prayed twice, and here he was, alone and broken, offering up his voice for him. A lonely man, singing through the pain.

He kept his voice as soft as he could, the prayer breaking when he could not sustain the trills so quietly, but it was as honest a supplication for strength and mercy as a man can make.

For the first time in weeks, Erik Brodeur fell asleep without a sedative. 

…

December 20--

Something was not right. Nadir Khan frowned at the notes on the screen.

“The graft tissue is struggling, Erik, and you are not gaining weight. Are you eating enough?”

Erik sat firmly on his hands, his torso tense and straining as his eyes roved the stark consulting room. “I eat what I have to. It’s on the list.”

Nadir checked the handwritten log. By all accounts Erik was nourished. “Your body is not using it. And the tremor?”

Knowing that to not respond would just earn him a full exam, Erik pulled his hand from under his thigh. His entire arm vibrated. “Did I tell you I’ve hired lawyers? Good ones.”

“I’d heard. Any numbness? Tingling or shooting pain?”

“Some,” Erik groused and shoved his hand back under his leg with a grunt. 

Frowning, Nadir tapped his phone. “I want to order a metabolism screen and nerve conduction test for Erik Brodeur. Yes, I’ll hold.” Nadir smiled as the hold music came on and put the phone on speaker. He turned back to his patient. “I hope you don’t mind. I still like Strauss.”

Erik’s shoulders had drooped, and he was sitting completely still, staring at the phone. His mouth twitched at one corner, the corner that could still function, and Nadir could swear that it was a smile.

Later, standing aside during the nerve test, Nadir prayed softly for Erik. When the needle touched the nerve, Erik choked on his whimpers but as Nadir listened carefully, he could hear a melody underneath the pain. It wheezed and broke, but it was there.

Erik was trying to hum Strauss.

…

February 20--

Catabolism, the breakdown of muscle and other tissue, had taken a toll on Erik’s body. He was reed thin now but, thanks to the lawyers and a hefty settlement, quality tailoring and fine fabrics could compensate where he lacked. Unfortunately, the wasting had ravaged his face. The skin repairs had held, thankfully, but little tissue remained underneath to cushion his features on one side. It was time to consider alternative plans.  
Surgery was ruled out; he was too fragile. And while the skin held well, adhesives were ruled out, and surgical dressings were just not needed anymore.

Which left…

“It is unconventional, but less strange than some elective modifications I’ve seen.”

Erik held up samples. “I want one of each. Make that two.”

“They are each custom made, and are not inexpensive, my friend.”

Erik did not look up. “I’m about to settle another case,” he said grimly. With a disquieting grin he added, “I’m treating myself.” 

Nadir set the masks aside. “It is not healthy to remove yourself from the world.”

Ignoring Nadir’s words, Erik held up a mask and stared into the empty eyeholes. It was hauntingly white with a mild, blank expression. A far cry from what was under the dressings. 

It was uncomfortable to think about, and Nadir rubbed at the ache that still lived in his chest. Hollow… If he himself was hiding from life, then perhaps Erik should be allowed his mask. 

Erik fingered the surprisingly sturdy edges of the mask, turned it around, and held it up to his face. His gaze peered out from the eyehole and Erik was at once calm and unearthly.

Nadir shuffled the papers and gave Erik the forms.

…

March 20--

“Do you still enjoy music?”

Erik stopped his pacing, lightly tracing the cheek of his mask with a thin fingertip. “Of course. You know I minored in music for fun.” 

Nadir chuckled. “It’s a little surprising for an architect. It’s not like you had much spare time.”

With a shrug, Erik began to prowl Nadir’s consulting room again. “I took lessons as a child. I kept up with it a bit after I graduated.” Erik clamped his mouth shut. It was the first conversation about music since the accident and it felt like scraping a scab, but it was music. “It came easy. Design, composition, music, structure… it all comes from the same place.”

“What place is that?”

Erik’s mouth twitched. “Creation. The soul. Spirit. Call it what you will, but new ideas are unlike anything else.” His perfect eyes closed and his whole body shuddered. “Sometimes I swear I can feel them.” 

As Nadir watched in fascination, Erik craned his head to catch the strains of distant music through the open window, his hands drifting up as if he was holding the sound, manipulating it in space. For a moment, they were steady.

…

June 20--

A functional MRI is an intimidating process and an even more intimidating machine. Even the best were huge, loud, and frankly terrifying and then you were loaded into it like a missile. Nadir watched as his reluctant patient, stripped of his only shield against the world, had to be restrained to control the tremors and jarring spasms that threatened to pitch him from the sliding bench. 

“I am so sorry, my friend. I would sedate you, but I need to see your mind working without the drugs.”

Erik’s shaking rattled the bench as the machine rumbled to life. Nadir sent a message for the skin and burn care team to come as soon as possible; the head restraint was going to rub poor Erik raw.

Afterwards, medicated and listing to the left, Erik managed a slurred greeting as Nadir joined him on the consult couch. He grinned lopsidedly and held up the thick file. “I like your work. Light reading, really.” 

Nadir chuckled. “You are fascinating, my friend. Your records do not do you justice.”

Erik’s humor was fleeting. “I’ll have justice when we own every company that did this,” he said coldly. “When will you have some results?”

“I will call you in a week. We should have our results written up by then.” Nadir stood and carefully helped Erik off the couch and onto his feet, then fished his keys from his pocket. When he looked up, Erik was swaying to an unheard melody, his arms raised to conduct. 

Nadir shook his head and opened the door. “You might even be coherent by then.”

...

They met at Nadir’s home. As they had been acquaintances first, it was hardly breaking any professional guidelines. Besides, there were exceptions to every rule.

Nadir decided that Erik was the exception to most rules one night after being simultaneously trounced at a third chess game, lectured at over a nuanced view of algorithm driven digital design (you can always tell because the AI cannot know what is pleasantly unexpected versus what is fluid design and that cannot be programmed yet) all while Erik perused playlists on his phone. 

Tonight he was threatening to rattle himself to pieces with his nervous energy.

“My friend, please,” Nadir pleaded, setting his king down on the chessboard. “Draw breath and allow me to speak.”

Erik sat back, fingers fidgeting over the pieces. He adjusted the mask, fiddling with the edge as his jaw pulsed in a clench over and over. 

“I went over your results with the entire team. The psychologists, radiologists, and surgeons provided full reports and if you’re ready, we can go over them now.”

When Nadir finished, he discreetly placed a box of tissues on the corner of the coffee table, and retreated into the kitchen. He brewed a fresh pot of tea, and poured a small whiskey, the only spirit in his home, purchased especially for today.

Nadir lingered by a locked closet where a collection of instruments lived in silence. Life had been so quiet for so long. 

Erik was reading the file when he returned.

“Protracted moderate catabolism, mild emotional lability, hyper focus, heightened neuro-sensory state with synesthesia-like features and tactile sensitivity,” Erik read, eyes roving the text. Then he tapped the papers with a sneer. “Idiopathic tremors resolvable by organized sound and exacerbated by unexpected stimulus.”

Nadir handed Erik the whiskey and perched on a chair, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You’re aware that ‘idiopathic’ is the fancy word for ‘I don’t know’. That’s why it starts with _‘idiot’_.”

“True,” Nadir said with a satisfied smile. “But I cannot publish ‘I don’t know.’”

Erik looked at the whiskey. “And that is the most ridiculous way to describe music I have ever heard.”

“Agreed.” The tea was excellent. Nadir loved the Assam first flush. “It’s just a first draft. Besides, no one said case reports were good reading.”

“Good luck getting it published. Nice to know you’ll immortalize me as a twitchy head case with a music fetish.” Erik took a respectable swallow of whiskey and breathed out through his mouth. 

Nadir watched as Erik’s jaw finally relaxed. “You’re welcome.”

…

September 20--

Nadir made himself at home while Erik punched viciously at his phone until a sonata played through the kitchen speakers.

“How was the cocktail party? A triumphant return?”

With his arms rising, fingers flicking in time with the music, Erik drew a deep breath. “I was a spectacle. Today’s favorite entertainment. Look! He can walk and talk, even dress himself!” He slapped his arms down to his sides and snarled bitterly. “Almost like a normal person!” He nudged his padded mask. “Why the hell were there so many mirrors? A narcissist must have handled the décor of the office; perhaps a voyeur. They were all so polite and sweet, Nadir. Like syrup. They would touch me and just pretended nothing happened when I jerked away. They just kept touching me! They were just smiling so much and congratulating me.” 

A clarinet crooned prettily, and his fists unclenched. “They wore masks, Nadir. Bare, smiling faces, but masks everywhere.”

Nadir poured his tea. “Then why are you going back?”

The look in his eyes. Oh, it was so sad. “I just want my life back, Nadir. An ordinary life. I want to be normal again. I _need_ to feel normal again.”

…

Erik flung his keyboard against the wall and, with his hairpiece tossed aside hours ago, dragged his fingers through his remaining hair. His real hair had spent much of the past year traveling for destinations away from his head. Notably his sink, shower drain, and pillow.

The structural models in his drafting programs were not cooperating. The angles and plots danced on the grid like shape shifting demons. Even his own work swung from the gridlines like children on monkey bars, skittering away and then over his skin like an itch. His work mocked him, his ability to navigate the calculus of design-- the precision of the physical—just out of reach. 

He pulled at his scalp painfully. What the hell did he need hair for when he could not even make sense of his own damn work?

…

Accounts, spreadsheets, and billing. Half of his time was spent doing the work of an admin. 

Though, to be fair, it had taken him more than a week to log into the design system again. If all this meant he would have to throttle down, then so be it. Isn’t that what the daytime shows all preached? Live your best life, and find your rewards where you could? Granted, it was crafted and produced to goad stay-at-home moms to buy pink salt or yoga pants and convince the sick and injured to hire the worst lawyers.

Not like his lawyers. Thanks to them he had a new house and Nadir’s mosque had a new scholarship program.

With a sigh, Erik tabbed through another column and created a new chart. The business side was a mess and if he was stuck doing this, he was going to do it well. The contracts populated with a few strokes and autofill and he started parsing. Past due, late, pending, and liens. Acquisitions, ongoing arrangements and a series of ‘no category’. 

Then, as his scrolling reached the speed of blur, a date caught his eye. Not a birthday or holiday. 

The date of his first win in court. A contract ended on that day. When Erik chased down the files, the contractor had been one the firm had hired, not him. He hadn't approved of the hire, but it had been over his head at that point.

He dug in his bag and pulled out a hard drive.

…

November 20--

“You need help, my friend.”

Erik scoffed, scrolling through a series of playlists. “What I need is another drink and more storage on my phone.”

Nadir moved the bottle from Erik’s immediate grasp. “No, what you need to a re-evaluation. Time has passed, you have adapted. You may need to consider…” Nadir paused, trying to approach carefully. These were treacherous waters for anyone, let alone a man with an explosive temper. His eyes drifted to Erik’s unsettlingly bare walls.

“Consider what? Spit it out, I just downloaded a new recording of Meyerbeer’s Dinorah.”

With a deep breath, Nadir looked back. “You should consider a change of lifestyle. Maybe a career change.”

Erik was still. “Architecture is my career. I’ve written books on modern design. It’s my life. Hell, I advised you on your house.”

Nadir shook his head. “While I appreciate your skill, it is not your life. It is a job, one you are not happy with.”

“It pays.”

“You don’t need the money.”

Erik smiled darkly. The edge of the mask did not hide the cruel twists his tortured flesh made. “No, I don’t. Did you know I won another settlement?”

“The building inspector?”

Nodding, Erik continued, “And their parent company.” Erik’s grin fell, and he lightly set his hand on Nadir’s arm. It was such a rare thing, for him to reach out. “Nadir, I promise, I’m not done yet.”

Nadir tried to speak, but could not form the words. Time had not softened his pain, or his friend’s judging by the cautious touch on his forearm. 

Instead, he allowed Erik to withdraw and take the bottle once more. Nadir sipped his tea. “When will you be done?”

Lead crystal makes interesting sounds when the rim is plucked. Erik grinned at the sound. “Would you say negligence or intent is harder to prove?”

“Is this a medical or legal question?”

Erik smiled. “Legal. And depending on what my lawyers find, the question may turn to one of intent.”

With his teacup in hand, Nadir left the kitchen and joined Erik in the living room. “Do not do this for me,” he said stiffly. “For yourself if you wish, but I will not have this hanging over me.” At Erik’s trembling, Nadir softened. “My friend, I would not have it oppress you, either.”

…

Nadir Khan was not one to call in favors. It reminded him too much of his upbringing, where you had to know the right people to even walk the streets. And if the right people changed, you could have a great many problems on your hands. It went without saying that they changed often.

He and his wife had fled as swiftly as they could, hoping his medical degree and her connections outside the country would be enough to land them safely somewhere, anywhere, with some security. His darling Rookheeya… her reputation alone had been enough to keep them housed and fed for more than a year. 

They traveled on her cello strings from Germany to France, then on to London. Finally he’d managed to find a position in America and she was happy to settle down, take a quieter position teaching and play in the local symphony, holding master classes at the university where she was beloved by students and faculty. Nearly fifteen years ago, when her belly touched the cello, she and said it was a nice way to give their son his first lessons. They had made a magnificent duet. 

Her students rotated through her quartet. She mentored them and introduced them to other performers and she was never without a venue. Invitations arrived regularly for her to perform, but she always put her students first, and her colleagues knew and respected her for it.

So it was with a lump in his throat that Nadir Khan reached for his phone and called in his first favor to the university he’d tried very hard not to think about for more than a year. 

…

May 201-

It took a hideous amount of effort, but Erik Brodeur managed to don the regalia and attend his department’s pre-graduation celebration for new doctorates. Despite the department’s efforts, and Nadir’s protests, he refused to attend the graduation. 

Erik had heard the music, he told them, and if the ceremony organizers had any sense they would have expelled half the orchestra and then strangled the soloist. If she insisted on belting out of her range, she might as well get a preview what the nodules would feel like for reference.

After the accusations of just being ‘mysterious’ and the disastrous aftermath, Erik chose to focus less on performance and more on composition and invention. It also happened that he was intimately aware of vocal structure and training, having painstakingly recovered his own instrument over the last two years. He wrote music and coached the handful of students brave enough to see him regularly for lessons. They learned quickly to stand at his left.

Only a handful. He couldn’t handle more, and by the time he was nearing graduation, he was turning away more than he taught every semester.

…

While he had not made many friends in the program, Erik had taken some interest in a few with more analytical backgrounds. He had no time for those who relied solely on inspiration, but he was infinitely patient with those who worked through the problems, puzzling out pieces from instrument to arrangement to lyrical phrasing. Nadir wondered more than once what it would look like if skyscrapers could be built of music.

The maker lab, outfitted with ever-newer and more sophisticated computers and 3D printers, had been a frequent haunt for Erik. To the dismay of the entire department, he toyed with his old drafting work with new fervor and purpose.

Erik gifted the 3D printer plans and a song written especially for his original six-string violin to Zadir Amini, a brilliant young Iranian musician and engineer. Nadir paid for the high resolution grade resin. The music department grimaced and subsidized the engineering department’s shockingly high 3D printer usage fees, only too happy to see Erik leave their facilities. 

…

November 201?

It made Nadir Khan smile that, even in the digital age, so much creative work still burst into life as scribbles. Stacks of staff paper heaped by the piano and a powerful computer, waiting to be formed into something greater. The problem was not the stacks by the piano and computer, but rather the ones by his couch, bed, and in the bathroom. And little really progressed beyond that.

A melancholy string of notes rose from the piano across the house and floated into the kitchen. Nadir saw the melody he was hearing scribbled across some staff paper on a stool in the kitchen. Were the place not covered in a layer of creative detritus, it would be a rather sleek kitchen. It resembled the resident: highly functional, and barely used.

The same series of notes, at once gorgeous and haunting, varied in their emphasis, then repeated. A lonely, unsustainable composition.

“You are drifting again, my friend,” Nadir called across the house. He cleared sheets of staff paper away to make room for the kettle. 

The keys shouted a discordant protest. “You’re not jamming my head into an MRI again just because I’m stuck on something.” The echo of approaching footsteps came from the hallway.

“No,” Nadir agreed, and sprinkled tea into the pot. “But you don’t have a schedule, and you don’t interact anymore. It’s important, Erik. It’s normal.” 

“I don’t have normal,” Erik spat as he settled his mask into place. 

“When did you last get up before eleven?”

Erik tilted his head in that unsettling way, his clear eyes full of dark mirth. “Morning or night?” 

The kettle beeped and Nadir breathed the steam as he filled the tea pot. Erik purchased it years ago for his sole use and it saw as much use as his own at home. “You are squandering yourself. You have a lot to offer.”

“Aren’t you the one who said I didn’t need the money? Oh yes, then I went and got a doctorate. For fun.”

Nadir turned from the coffee pot and slapped his hand on the counter. Erik jumped, his fingers skittering over the staff paper. 

“Yes, damn you, I did say that,” Nadir shouted. “And now I don’t need the money either, but I still work. And when I leave work, I leave work. I see people and I live my life. It’s not an exciting life, but it’s mine. But you, my friend, you could have such a life! But you stay in your house, dress in fine clothes no one sees and compose music no one hears.”

“Take care, Nadir,” Erik warned.

“I’ve been trying! For eight years I’ve tried to take care of you, but you do not make it easy. As your doctor, business partner, and as your friend!”

“Which one is it now?” Erik snarled. “Are you worried about your studies or your investment? Because no one can care about this!” He lifted the edge of the mask, exposing raw, distorted twists stretched over sharp bone.

Nadir’s breath caught in surprise. Erik never exposed his face anymore. Even his forearms stayed under folds of pressed cotton and linen. With a sigh of the long-suffering, Nadir set his hands flat on the counter and hung his head. “Is it so hard to believe?”

“Of all people, you should hate me the most,” Erik sneered as he curled into himself.

So they were here again. Erik’s carousel ride of guilt over things he had no control over but blamed himself for anyway. Things he could hardly even remember. Self-hatred for a failure that was not his, thinking the outward reflected his sins.

Nadir lifted his head, vision blurring. “I don’t. I cannot.”

Erik deflated, his intensity suddenly dimming. Too-thin arms clawed at the air, scraped at the staff paper, and finally wrapped around his suddenly fragile looking torso as the tremors overtook his spent anger. 

Nadir circled the counter and, ever so lightly, set his palm on Erik’s sharp shoulder. The joint popped as a fresh spasm radiated through him. “You have my devotion, as a friend.” Nadir said softly. Weary and aware of the years of pain Erik had suffered, Nadir returned to a stool and held his head in his hands. “Erik, I just… I want you to consider something. A trial period, perhaps.”

Erik paled, and the pages he had managed to gather slid from his grasp. The raw edge of his quivering lip turned a lurid shade of red as his teeth raked into it. “No tests. No needles.” He swallowed and clasped his hands together to cover the increasing tremors. “A new drug? Therapy?”

“No, my friend,” Nadir chuckled. “Teaching.”

...


	3. Coffee and Chorales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet cute.

…

January 201-

The Orpheus School of Music and Dance had been without a dedicated full-time accompaniment, vocal coach, and composer for their senior staff for too long. Initially dismissive of a highly educated applicant with no relevant work history, the director of the school, Dr. Allen, turned sheepish and awestruck when he saw Erik's sample work and heard him perform.

He'd stared at Erik's mask, too, and tripped over his tongue when discussing the students. The school was desperate to become a feeder for the extensive music and performing arts culture in the city. Dr. Allen prattled on about the need to establish a reformed program before introducing such high level training, cultivating a new culture of performance, and other nonsense.

But he held back on a timeline. Erik knew what he was really saying. The school needed to adjust to having a mask-wearing freak as a senior staff member, but his real reply sounded a little better. "For now, perhaps, just the senior staff, arrangements for advanced students, and accompaniments when needed?"

Dr. Allen smiled in relief and shook his hand gratefully and delivered Erik to the administrative office for paperwork.

…

Nadir had a vice. He didn't have many, good doctors generally didn't, but this thick, sweet, black sludge was definitely one of them. Which was exactly why the Turkish coffee pot and grounds stayed at Erik's house, and not his own.

The first sip always made his eyes roll for a moment, and when he looked up from his cup, Erik was still intently scrolling and tapping through a myriad of tabs on his laptop.

"New project?" The warmth of the cup was as delicious as what was in it. Nadir wrapped his chilled hands around it

Erik's half smile peeped from the mask. "I got the job, so I've got homework to do."

The cup nearly sloshed with Nadir's rush to shake Erik's hand. "Congratulations! So, they've already given you work to do? Transcribing? Designing a program?"

Erik snorted. "Personnel directory. You know, in the last few years the internet has gone from news, porn, and pictures of people's lunches to roadmaps of people's lives. Public and private."

Nadir sipped and glanced over Erik's shoulder. "They still post their lunches, I see."

"This is the head of the six to eight year olds program. Her Instagram is a temple to green juice and sushi. Her Facebook suggests a more earthbound love of red meat."

"Closeted steak eater?" Nadir slurped foam from his moustache.

"Man eater."

"Next," Nadir said, averting his eyes.

"The two main instructors are also a couple. Recordings suggest that she's a passable soprano and he's a quite good mature tenor. They just sing the wrong music, but that's easy to fix. The head ballet instructor looks exactly as a fifty year old French ballet mistress should." Erik stood and started another pot of coffee.

"So, terrifying?"

Erik chuckled as he measured coffee. "There's a few other full time staff and a mountain of part time people who are probably graduate students and recent grads between staying fresh for auditions. Most have recordings posted and they're all respectable and might be very good with my help."

Nadir sat and tapped on a recording and a soft warble from a young baritone played. "Have you gone through them all?"

"Nearly. Twenty seven in all, and nearly a dozen I'm looking forward to meeting."

"That's quite a load for you."

Erik sighed as he swirled the pot. "It is."

It was going to be a long evening. He would have to pace himself. Too much of this coffee and he'd be as wired as Erik. "Any concerns?"

This distance across the kitchen, and having a task, was useful. It allowed Erik to remain at arm's length from both him and his own thoughts. Nadir waited while Erik sprinkled cardamom into the pot and continued his careful brew.

Another sigh. Softer. "Is this what I need, Nadir? Will this make me normal? An ordinary man? I mean, can I ever have that again?"

The baritone's voice rose, a sound both full of power yet mournful. Erik's unoccupied hand moved in the air, trembling every so slightly, as though catching and weaving the voice, directing the recording through the pain as the tune sweetened with warmth. Nadir emptied his cup to avoid speaking until the song ended and the air carried only the scent of a fresh brew.

"I think this is what you need, Erik," Nadir said, fiddling with the edge of his cup. "But I disagree on one point, my friend."

"Which is?" Erik asked as he carefully watched the pot.

Nadir joined Erik in the kitchen. "You may be many things, but ordinary will never be one of them." He leaned against the counter. "I prefer the term 'whole'."

Erik looked up from the pot, blinking. After a moment, his shoulders dropped minutely. "Another?"

Nadir set his cup by Erik's hand. "Of course."

…

March 201-

If Carlotta would simply sing for her voice, she would be magnificent. That the woman insisted on the repertoire and style of a school girl was hardly Erik's fault, but the tremor that lightly rattled his shoulders throughout the sessions was almost accusatory. Erik had been prepared to work with her, but the woman had insisted on singing like a Disney princess on a roller coaster. The range and precision was there, but the polish was too fine, bordering on machine-like. Erik lowered his expectations and set out to keep her from hurting herself.

And if Carlotta was flying too high, then her partner Ubaldo would stand en pointe to hold her up, despite the fact that he had achieved the heroic phase of his robust tenor and should be singing Ulysses.

But he would never turn down a chance to be Carlotta's Romeo and that was simply that.

The ballet instructor also taught introductory voice, and Madame Giry (Erik knew of no first name—she was simply Madame) had a respectable mezzo that neither thrilled nor irritated. The same could be said of much of the faculty and Erik found that the mediocrity was soothing, if unremarkable.

He avoided the word unfulfilling.

A handful of other faculty came through his studio throughout the week, and eventually his days organized themselves around his own morning vocals and practice, then with faculty, and ended his day with composition work. He stayed on the faculty and advanced side of the school, leaving the retina searing primary colors and candy-pinks to the children's side. There, college students and local theater performers taught everything from rhythm and harmony to six year olds to the fundamentals of musical theater to high school students.

A few were good. Most would wreck their voices, if not their bodies, by twenty-five. Despite his expertise, none of the teachers on this side of the school came to ask him for lessons.

Erik did not mind. He'd long since grown accustomed to his solitude. It left him more time to compose on his own. But there was just one problem.

Composing required coffee. Plain, drip coffee.

Quite a lot, in fact, and the good coffee pots were in the kitchens. The kitchens were on the children's side of the school. The faculty side had one pod brewer and, frankly, he'd rather lick a public theater seat.

He quickly learned the quickest routes to the kitchens and avoided the areas of the school sporting the most offensively bright bulletin boards.

…

Erik had not slept well in days and his tremors were worse than usual. Composing and actually producing something was a labor he'd forgotten once he'd graduated. Admittedly, the university had set the bar rather low in his opinion, and had fallen over themselves to list him as a working musician once he'd scored the intro music for an app. His eight inch-thick portfolio was of less interest, apparently.

Carlotta sighed loudly when she saw how the pages shook in his hands and Ubaldo gave a nervous smile.

She gave an overly large curtsey. "Maestro? Are you well?"

Erik settled the sheets, smudging a correction, and tugged at his cuffs. "Your concern is touching. The serenade, then the duet?"

"As my maestro commands."

Despite everything, this was one place Erik was always free of the quivering that rippled through his nerves. When he played, the snarling in him quieted and music washed over him, soothing the tremors, relieving him from the constant debridement that every sound and sensation evoked.

The introduction to this solo was nearly two minutes long. Carlotta did not like to wait, but it was soothing; a warmth in his veins he could not generate without music.

Sadly, Carlotta joined the song on cue but, like everything else, it added color to the tapestry of his new life.

…

Within moments of getting home that night, Erik collapsed into his bed, the down coverlet fluffing up around him like he'd disturbed the geese that made it. His shoes slapped sharply to the floor, sending sparks over him that coalesced under his mask.

He needed to take care of his skin. Nadir would check.

He hauled himself from bed and turned the dimmer switch to its lowest setting. Bright lights sent shockwaves through him and frankly he didn't need to face a spotlighted version of himself.

The mask came off and the cool air sent a shiver through him and set his hands quivering. Even in the low light, he was just… well, there he was. Burn scars layered over little more than bone, part of his nostril melted onto his cheek, and his lips…

In profile, not so bad. From one side. Mostly.

It was the hairpiece that was the real clincher. He set it aside and smoothed down what remained. 

Patchy.

Unmatched.

 _Repulsive_ , his mind whispered.

He turned the overhead light all the way off and showered in the diffuse glow from his bedroom. He washed gently, careful to follow his doctor's instructions and warnings. Nadir parroted them at him often enough.

Nadir was finally seeing someone. Erik couldn't bring himself to call too often, not when the man had a chance to settle again. Not when he'd waited for Erik to stop being such a basket case. No longer on the verge of regular self-destruction. Erik tried to imagine what it was like to have that kind of life.

He failed, and laid awake for half the night, lost in the too-cool expanse of his oversized bed.

…

April 201-

There was simply not enough coffee in the world for this. All the little darlings in their tutus and tights clamoring about the hallways made it impossible for Erik to steal an entire carafe (safely, at least), so he settled for standing in the kitchen to drink one cup and take one with him back to his piano.

He was no longer able to stay up all night composing and still function the following day—not when there was a diva, her buffa, a spring staff concert, children's recitals at every grade level, a one-act musical theater production, and the ballet all happening in the same two week period. Erik left Allen to deal with Carlotta after refusing to provide a second cadenza to her solo.

Children were rounded up in lines and shooed to a smaller recital room packed with folding chairs. Relieved, Erik sighed and took a sip of his freshly poured cup. It burned, heat ricocheting through his lips and pinging down his neck. He took the lid off to cool and leaned against the counter. If he sat now, he'd have a hell of a time getting back up. All the tables and chairs were covered in flowers and gift baskets for the teachers, anyway.

The best gift he'd ever gotten from a student was this coffee cup taped to a bottle of red wine. More useful than flowers and Erik appreciated the well-insulated cup and its spillproof lid. If anyone other than his student had given it to him he would have been furious, but he'd yet to spill despite his tremors. That it was sleek and looked like an understated art piece was a bonus.

The teachers on the children's side all played piano for their classes, so he'd had little to do for them besides arrange simple versions of great ballets for little Dulcineas and Odettes to bop about on their heels. The older students and the senior teachers decided, since they had such a great resource in him, to do a musical. Erik put his foot down and limited it to one new song.

It was a lot. A student would sing it for the musical, and Carlotta would sing it at the staff concert. That he'd written much of the serenade a few years ago no one needed to know.

Still, it was a lot. He needed more coffee.

He'd considered presenting the song he was working on, maybe try to finish it, but that was too personal. The repeated phrase was scattered across the pile of papers Nadir had stacked on his counter and it never left him alone. It was soft and sad with a sturdy backbone to build on. The piano in his workroom had obliged him, letting those notes grow into something fluid but it needed resolution.

And a voice. Madame Giry was reliable but unornamented. Carlotta was… Carlotta.

His coffee had cooled enough to drink and Erik swallowed half of it, refilled, and popped the lid back on. Before he could ease his weight off the counter, a half-sung, half hummed sound floated down the hall and into the kitchen. He caught pieces of sweet phrasing spun around an effortless melody. A trill here, a rolled r.

He recognized every voice in the school, down to the children in the third grade choir. He didn't know this voice.

_He didn't know this voice._

Intrigued but in no mood to meet a stranger, Erik ducked into the supply closet and peeked through the angled slats.

The voice grew closer, and finally a woman with curling hair pinned atop her head walked into the kitchen and took an apple from a gift basket. She continued to sing and toyed absently with the tune as she washed her snack, first elaborating the motif, then abbreviating. Erik leaned his exhausted head against the door and listened, fingertips dancing through the air smoothly in time with her playful variations. With his gaze fixed on her through the slats, he watched as she rolled a slender shoulder and let her hips sway, then she added exquisite resonance to her sound. The tiniest scrape in her transition was… seductive. Erik closed his eyes and exhaled, letting her voice wash over and through him.

Perfectly imperfect.

And yes, there. He'd add the violin accompaniment just there. A counterpoint to caress and slide around the loneliness in her voice like a lover.

Then it stopped. Erik's eyes snapped open and he gripped the door frame to avoid falling into the racks of plastic ware and paper towels behind him. He peered through the slats again.

She was looking at his coffee cup.

Shuffling in the hallway and a parade of cardboard went by. "Christine!" A voice called. "The kids have the scenery changed, you'd better get back here!" The woman shrugged and bit her apple as she hurried away.

Erik blinked. _Christine._

He waited a minute more, then exited the closet cautiously and retrieved his coffee. It wasn't until he was sitting at his piano again, mimicking her whimsical tune, that he froze. 

Realization struck him like a bolt and he gripped the bench as if he'd slide off otherwise.

While she sang, his hands had not trembled.

…

The spring recital season was over, and Erik took the chance to sleep for nearly an entire day solid. It threw off his schedule so badly that he stayed up all night composing. When he set his bag on his desk Tuesday morning, he was nearly as bleary as when he took his day off.

Which is to say, he needed coffee. At two that afternoon, after orders to the staff for nothing more than warm ups after the weeks of rehearsals and concerts, Erik took his sleek coffee cup and trudged to the kitchen. The teachers there were preparing for their after-school classes and the carafes were blessedly full. He filled his cup and leaned his aching head against the cabinets.

"I see you got your cup back!"

Erik turned quickly, startled. He angled his face to keep his left side toward… her. "Ah, yes. Yes, I did." It was Christine. The voice. Erik glanced at the storage closet and recalled the breathless minutes he spent in there. He could barely breathe now.

She reached in front of him, nearly brushing his chest with her arm, and took the carafe. "It was a crazy week. We're still cleaning up the mess down here." She took a sip and sighed happily. "I'm Christine Daaé. I started a few weeks ago."

"Erik Brodeur." He kept his face awkwardly turned. If she thought it strange, she made no sign of it. "I wondered when they'd let you up for air. Some of the other teachers thought you were living here during prep for concert week."

He felt his mouth twitch. "Almost. I made a few brave escapes, but had to be back to do vocal lessons in the mornings."

She perked up. "You give lessons? To staff?"

"Senior staff," he said automatically, and instantly regretted it as her face fell a bit. In a near panic, he continued quickly. "But things are slower now. I've already told Allen that I'm not doing arrangements for the school until the end of the summer, so if you're interested, I'm sure I can accommodate it."

"Really?" She sparkled and the sound of her delight tickled his neck. "I mean, I won't take someone else's time."

The possibility of having her, her, sing alongside him was dizzying. Erik thought quickly. "Staff sessions are early, and I sometimes stay late to compose. What time are you done with… this?" He had no idea what she did. Admittedly, he planned his day to avoid the crowds of children and their parents and left the teachers to their own devices.

"Six. I do the prep, so the other teachers handle tear down."

"Will six-thirty work? My recital room?"

"Sure! When can we start?" Christine was beaming. At him. Warmth rippled through him.

"Tomorrow?"

"Really? Oh god, this is the best thing that's happened in months," she gushed and nearly sloshed her coffee. Her cheeks warmed with color and Erik had to glance away. It was not possible for a person to look like that. Not around him, anyway. As she rebalanced her cup, Christine glanced at her phone and smiled sheepishly. "I have to get back, but thank you so much. I'll see you at six-thirty tomorrow!"

Christine's smile was sweet and shining, and she gave a little wave as she went out into the hallway. 

Eric waved back, and decided to not feel like an idiot for it.

"Tomorrow," he repeated.

…

At a quarter after six, Erik had run out of things to prepare and sat at his piano, playing to ease his nerves. He played nothing in particular, just airs and bits he liked, and let his little phrases wind around each other in an impromptu ode to the art of chasing silence back into its corner.

"That's beautiful," said a voice from the doorway.

Erik glanced at the clock as he transitioned from one song to the next. Six twenty-two. "You're a little early."

Christine set down her bag and stood by the piano. "I waited as long as I could. I was ready half an hour ago." She wrinkled her nose. "I even did tongue twisters."

His hands continued to play, heedless of their owner's distraction. His students at the university would wait in the hall outside until exactly one minute past the hour. Carlotta was perpetually late and rarely prepared and Giry was punctual to the point of cliché. Ubaldo had no sense of time outside of song and Erik thought him a rather musically gifted cryptid. No one was early on purpose.

"Well aren't you the model student," he joked. It came out more with bite than he intended, so he added a silly flourish on the piano.

Christine laughed. "Most teachers just called me adequate."

Erik looked up, his hands stilling for a moment. "Most teachers are incompetent." The silence stretched a beat too long, and when he resumed, he found the song had changed from something pleasantly inviting into something… else. Soft and sad. More yearning than perhaps appropriate to the setting.

Six twenty-nine. His eyes fell back to Christine, her head tilted to one side as if to catch the music more completely. Eyes half closed.

Oh.

Erik cleared his throat and pulled his hands from the keys. "Scales then? Let's start with middle C and see where that takes us."

She opened her eyes and straightened with a deep breath and an excited curve to her lips.

Oh, he was in trouble.

…

They agreed to meet twice a week. On their second session, a piece of music clicked and they transitioned from one piece to the next with little thought or effort. Somehow the room melted away and they could have been anywhere, anywhen.

When Christine's voice began to fray, Erik reluctantly waved his hand with a flourish, signaling the end of their lesson. She was bright with effort, a blush that lent a sparkle to her eyes and painted itself across her cheeks.

A glance at her smile was enough to make his voice catch, and Erik had to clear his throat.

"I think that's enough for today," he managed, and slid from the bench. "You know the drill, plenty of water, easy on the alcohol, and vocal rest for the evening."

While Christine caught her breath and reached for her bottle of water, Erik happened to look up at the clock. It was after eight. The walls were suddenly close.

"I hadn't meant to keep you so late."

She gave a little shrug. "It's no problem."

Erik smoothed the front of his jacket and adjusted his cuffs, then forced his hands to be still. "I don't want to keep you from any- plans." From anyone. That was a lie. He'd like to play for her until she had that dreamy smile again, but that smile might be for someone else.

Her curls rolled over her shoulders as she shook her head. "Nope no plans, just my roomate. I'm sort of new in town," she said, then examined her water bottle rather carefully. "I'm, uh, not keeping you, am I?"

If only life could have provided a rim shot. A bit of comedic trombone, perhaps.

"Me?" Erik laughed. It was not a nice laugh. It was an ugly sound, and Erik smothered it quickly. "No, I haven't had plans in a while."

"Oh," Christine said. "Well, I don't mind staying a bit late if you don't." She had the sweetest smile, and his hands had managed to stop picking at his cuffs.

Erik swallowed, and reminded himself to blink. "Sure. It's okay with me."

…

"Nadir, so help me god, if you don't answer your phone I will hunt you down and shout Stockhausen at you."

Erik ended the call and dropped his phone on the counter. His kitchen was spotless, his living room stylishly pristine, and the bathroom was sparkling. His papers were as organized as they were going to get and his favorite pens were actually on his desk for once, rather than jammed under his keyboard, shoved into notebooks, composition folders or scattered on the table by his piano which was polished free of rings.

It was only nine at night.

He dialed again. "In the name of all that is holy, pick up your damned phone."

Erik needed to talk to his friend. His only friend. Ubaldo was nice enough but had no frame of reference.

It had been so long… he hadn't even entertained the notion. He probably shouldn't. She just wanted voice lessons. At the very least he could be charming.

Erik slapped his palm against the counter. There was nothing charming about him. Not anymore; acid never really mellowed. He needed Nadir.

"Nadir, I'm giving you one last chance. It's about a woman. Call me."

He ended the call and headed to the liquor cabinet.

He'd only just poured a glass of red when the phone rang. When he answered, Erik caught the end of a feminine giggle.

"Tell me of your woman, my friend. I am here to help."

Erik jammed the cork back into the bottle savagely. "She's not mine. It's just… she can sing, and I started giving her lessons after work. I see her and talk to her and play for her and I don't do that."

"You're rambling, Erik."

"I'm going to cancel. Or I'll say I'm really too busy. Or that-"

"You will do nothing of the sort. Are you meeting her at home or at work?"

"Work," Erik said flatly.

"Then why are you nervous? What is she like?"

Erik thought and could recall little more than a smile, a voice, the way deep breaths made her sway, and the way he aches to see it. He barely knew her at all. "She is kind, Nadir, and she looks at me like anyone else. I know she probably just wants free voice lessons but I don't think I care because she smiles at me," Erik gripped the counter as if he might float away. "Do you understand, Nadir? She smiles at me. When she sings, my hands do not shake."

Nadir was quiet. "How long has it been, Erik," he asked softly.

"Pardon?" The phone's case creaked, Erik squeezed so hard.

"Don't play stupid, Erik."

Erik drained the wineglass in one long pull. "Four years." It was hardly romance. A grimy screw backstage with a near stranger. "She was a grad student in another department and thought I was in costume for a part."

Nadir sighed. "Oh, Erik."

"I'm not sure who was more traumatized afterwards, her or me." He poured a second glass, then put the bottle away.

"My friend, be careful. For your own sake and hers, go slow. Do I need to come over?"

Yes. "No, no. Get back to what you were doing, I'm fine."

"I will call you tomorrow, my friend. And be kind to yourself. I will not be pleased if you sabotage a chance at happiness."

"Thank you, Nadir. Good night."

Erik left his phone on the counter and wandered to the piano, sipping his wine as he walked. His body recalled the gentle sensuality of Christine's song, conducting her imagined refrains with his fingertips as if dancing.

A few sheets of staff paper later, he collapsed into bed and dreamed.

…

Christine was curious. "Wait, so you're an architect and you have a fine arts doctorate? Why?"

"No, I said I _was_ an architect. Then I went back to school for music."

She nodded and slid some music into a folder. "Okay, but still, why?"

They weren't going there. Not yet. Maybe never. Erik made a vague gesture, his hand flitting like a bird.

"I got bored."

She stood, unsatisfied. Erik sighed, flitting a hand absently by the mask. "An accident. You might say it was life changing." For some, _life ending._

Erik watched, looking for signs of… something. Her eyes widened and flitted from his left eye to the edges of his mask. It was subtle, but Erik was good at nothing if not knowing when he was being examined.

Christine blinked and shuffled the rest of her music into her binder quietly.

"I'm sorry." She finally replied.

"Don't be. It was a long time ago." Erik said as he turned back to the keys, then fussed over the sheet music that had migrated throughout the day. He had a filing system, it just needed practice to keep up. A bit like him he supposed. Out of practice.

"It took me a long time to finish school," Christine said abruptly. "Just one degree, though."

Erik stopped stacking papers and looked up. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"It was just my dad and me. He played violin in the local symphony and gave lessons. I was surrounded by music and musicians as a kid and I loved it. I even went to college to study voice and dance." She paused and straightened a loose curl, tucking it into a pin like it was a nervous habit.

Christine unclipped a wild section of her hair and coiled it again, taming escaped strands. "I was a junior when I took some time away from school. Afterwards I got some help getting auditions in the local scene. Small stuff and understudying, but I loved it."

The sad, wistful look on her face said there was more, but she was smiling. Small stuff made her smile.

Erik liked that smile. Small stuff. He could handle that. Starting small. "What did you understudy?"

…

Erik had gotten the little copper pot out and had almost sunk the spoon into the powder-fine grounds when he remembered he was alone. Nadir only came once a week now, and time stretched in odd ways during days in between. Not as bad as it might have been, though. He saw Christine twice a week after work and that helped, but not when he got home. Even air moved differently when you were alone.

She said she'd started at the school a few weeks ago. She wouldn't have been on the faculty list when he first stalked it, but she was now. Erik opened an incognito tab and started digging. Her page on the school's site led him to the usual accounts. Her Facebook looked half abandoned, so he started scrolling.

Her school years were normal enough until about four years ago.

The posts started hopeful enough. A bright eyed Christine wished her father good luck, then pages of sympathy notes, well-wishes and thinking-of-yous. A visit home, then back to school, a few tests, a dance recital and a group picture with a chorus and then…

Oh no. An emptied apartment. Appointments. Medical escorting and home health training. Chemo and radiation, Christine learning to care for radiation burns. Feeding tubes and morphine.

The posts now were few and far between; he could just feel the isolation compressed between them.

Hospice. Erik closed the tab..

Her Instagram was newer. She finished college, and met up for drinks with an old friend. The friend was a ballerina who drove to see her walk the stage, and then they moved in together. Christine job hunting, getting hired. A few notes of congratulations.

A blank page with a little heart on the anniversary of her father's passing.

And her last post. She was taking actual voice lessons with a real coach. She was happy and excited, like her early college days. The thought made a tingle spread over Erik's arms. He'd made her happy.

He had made Christine happy. Erik put the idea in his pocket and closed his laptop.

...

"No," Erik corrected. "Keep everything relaxed. If your shoulders are tense, your throat will tense."

"Well, I have to stay upright. If I relax any more I'll be lying on the floor!"

Christine had gotten frustrated with his reminders on her posture. Erik sighed. "You are not relaxed."

"Yes, I am," she growled.

 _Here goes nothing._ Erik stood from the bench stood in front of her. Christine glowered. "May I touch you, Christine?"

She stuck out her chin. "Fine."

"Turn, please."

Erik pressed his fingertips lightly into the back of her neck, then slipped down to her shoulders. One knot on the right side. Down a bit to her shoulder blades. A bit of pressure—

With a gasp, Christine curled over and nearly fell to the floor.

"Christine!" Erik cried, catching her arm and settling her on the piano bench. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you." He frowned. It certainly explained why she hadn't drawn a full breath that day. 

"You have a back spasm. How did this happen?"

"Earlier this week." Her words were gasped, catching on pain as she inhaled. "I hauled the gear for the third grade ballerinas on their field trip. I thought it was gone."

"No, when they're this bad they just go numb." He very lightly traced her back to find the edges of the hardened spasm. It was small but nasty, the center of it an angry knot. "No lifting until this is better. Heat, rest, and ibuprofen. Warm ups only for the rest of the week." He continued to stroke her back as her breathing loosened into smooth breaths.

"I still have to work." She leaned against him. The curve of her was… nice.

"Hmm."

The next day, Christine found a wheeled file box and a camping wagon tucked by her locker.

…

On his desk, tucked by his mouse, was a little box, wrapped in silver paper and closed with entirely too much tape. Erik wrestled through the tape and peeled off the wrapping paper, morbidly curious as to who would get him a gift. A completely random, unexpected gift.

Nestled on a bit of nylon fluff, sat nestled a pair of… cufflinks. One treble clef and the other was a bass clef. They were cheap. They were tacky- the silver-tone coating on them was already flaking off. Erik was about to close the box and throw it out when the fluff fell to the side and a note dropped out.

_Thanks for the wagon, you sneak. – Christine_

The treble clef was heavier, and it clinked against his desk as he typed.

...

The coffee pots in the kitchen were full so Erik took his time. As long as Dr. Allen was stalking him, wielding a flash drive loaded with music he wanted adapted for the school, Erik would find an excuse to linger.

It was decent coffee, which was nearly enough reason on it's own. Nearly. But Christine drank coffee too, and when she snuck into the kitchen between her classes they talked of nothings, filling time that didn't belong to them.

…

Erik looked down at his phone as he carefully wiped the mask clean. Nadir would still be awake, maybe. He'd want to hear about all of this... maybe.

No, he would wait until the visit. Nadir needed this; needed time away from him. All these years, how could he stand it? Stand being with him, knowing what happened and how and everything after? Maybe he should cancel the visit and let Nadir have that time, too. Taper it off, now that they were both moving on.

He left his phone on the counter next to the spotless and shined mask and wandered to the piano. He filled the empty house with nothings that very clearly belonged to someone else.

…


	4. Cardamom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Masks can slip.

There were three copies of the files he’d copied from his former employer. One dwelled on his everyday flash drive, innocuously labeled “Thing”, and nestled between folders full of chamber music and some drivel pulled from a midi program to fiddle with at some unspecified later date. Another copy was on his home computer, on a secured server, with all of his graduate work thesis, and the projects he was currently raiding bits from to use in new ways. 

The last lurked on the hard drive. The big hard drive that had everything. All his old designs and plans, his calendars and lists of meetings from those years, and all the arrangements having to do with the thing. The Thing. 

The hard drive lived in an unused drawer of a file cabinet and shared the space with his old work badge and surgical records. The scorched leather portfolio bag was in his closet. It was unusable, but it had saved his life. You tend to hang on to things like that.

He wished it had been in someone else’s hands that day.

…

Summer programs were brutal but fun, and new faces mixed with the regulars as sessions kicked off. Erik throttled back his projects and helped design a musicianship curriculum for the middle and high school students and, as long as he wasn’t called upon to actually instruct the hormonal monsters, found it was rewarding to listen at the door occasionally as Piangi jovially walked the boys through their rhythm drills. A few had promise even as they struggled with their single octave ranges. 

Despite the increasingly god forsaken weather, the school was kept seasonless and brisk. Coffee and Erik’s under-desk space heater were the only sources of warmth handy.

No, that was wrong. Christine’s smile could thaw out even his frigid hands. With a quick glance at the clock and that thought in mind, Erik snagged his favorite mug and headed to the kitchens. The coffee pots were half full and three teachers on break stared at magazines and screens while they ate.

He could do this. He knew them. “Hey, Meg. How’s the day going?” 

Madame Giry’s daughter taught as a summer job. She looked up from her tupperware and gave a tired nod. “Nine year olds are harsh.”

“I always knew there was a reason your mother carried that stick.”

Meg laughed and dropped her fork. “She definitely doesn't need it to walk.” With a decidedly ungraceful sigh, Meg Giry stood and packed her empty lunch things stretched. “‘I’m gonna let Christine know you’re here. She’ll owe me a break later. And don’t look surprised, she can’t shut up about you. See you, Dr. B!”

Erik stood, holding his mug and staring at the doorway. The other two teachers sniggered and stuffed their mouths full. By the time Christine rushed in, they were leaving, hurrying back to classes Erik was certain had not started yet.

“Erik! You’re early.” She hadn’t bothered pinning up the curls today and he liked how they flopped lazily over her shoulders when she reached into the fridge for her lunch.

He leaned against the counter top and took the lid off his cup. “Did you know Meg calls me ‘Dr. B’?”

“Everyone calls you that.” Christine popped a chunk of mango into her mouth. 

“Why don't they just call me Erik? It’s my name. ‘Dr. B’ sounds like it comes in a can.” He set his cup on the counter top and the treble clef smacked on the edge.

Christine smiled. Warmer than the heater under his desk. “Nice cufflinks.”

“I’m thinking about adding a piano necktie.”

A distinctly unflattering sound. He’d have to mention that at their next lesson. “If I have veto power,” she began.

“You might.”

“Then I’m going to vote that down. You’re more subtle than that.”

Laughter still felt strange, but it was less alien than it once was. “Oh yes, the masked man, master of subtlety.”

“It’s not your defining feature, you know,” Christine said softly. She sat with her lunch and looked up at him, expecting him to… join her? 

The coffee was a little stale but it steamed and would do the job. After a moment of hesitation, Erik took the seat beside her and fiddled with the lid of his cup, thinking. It begged the question, didn’t it? He disliked this kind of validation; he wasn’t needy that way, though his hands itched for more than just the piano these days.

Mango juice gathered on her lips.

“Okay, I’ll ask. What is?”

Christine set down her fork and leaned close. “It’s the listening at doors.” She giggled and his face felt hot. Oh god, did she know about the storage closet?

Another big bite of mango. “Someone told Piangi about you hanging around his door and he’s cooking up a prank for you. Thought you might like some warning.”

Erik exhaled. “Thanks.”

Later, after a few more laughs and those strange, loaded pauses, Christine finished her lunch and Erik refilled his coffee. Awkward foot scuffles and every way to hang on to the moment, as if they both didn't have actual jobs to get back to. The bell rang for the afternoon session and Christine ran out of excuses.

As they headed down their respective hallways, Christine turned and called out to him. “Oh, Erik?”

He turned so fast the flyers of the wall fluttered. “Yes?”

“You’ve got other good features, too. Not just eavesdropping.”

Erik left the heater under his desk off. He was warm enough.

...

Nadir leaned his head back on Erik’s sofa and sipped his tea. “You’ve been humming and dancing around your kitchen. Work going well, is it?”

Erik froze. He had done a little spin when he closed the oven, hadn’t he? “Well enough.”

“Out with it,” Nadir said and set his tea on the side table. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks and now you’re dancing. Please tell me you cancelled on me for something better than just a lesson.” With a little gasp, Nadir covered his mouth. “Erik, my friend, have you gone on a date?”

“No,” he denied quickly. “At least, I don’t think so?”

Nadir cradled his forehead. “Give me strength. Did you meet her alone?”

“Meet, no. And it was at work. Ten minutes on the chicken, I’ll start a salad.”

“But you were alone and not for her lesson? What did you talk about?”

Erik poured a glass of wine with more vigor than strictly necessary. “This feels like an exam. At least put on gloves first.”

“My god, you’ve got your sense of humor back.” Nadir stood up and went to the kitchen. Very seriously, he examined Erik. “No ill effects from levity, possible recent laughter. Take care, you’re in grave danger.”

Erik raised his glass to take a very intentional swallow of wine. “Danger of what, exactly?”

Nadir tapped his tea cup against the wine glass. “Of being human again. It’s equal parts joy and suffering, my friend, and you’re due. Just,” Nadir turned serious again. “Just take it slow, and be gentle with yourself, yes?”

Erik allowed a small smile. “Yes.”

Nadir grinned and chopped vegetables for their salad. It was hideously domestic but neither of them liked restaurants much. 

Later, long after dinner, Erik fingered the flash drive with the files. He’d hoped Nadir wouldn’t comment on how long it had been-- that Nadir would just let him fade into the background and enjoy moving on. Was that what Erik was doing? 

He rejected the thought and squeezed his fist tight until the corners of the flash drive dug into his palm. It was far heavier than a chip of plastic had any right to be.

…

They had decided to dig into Christine’s repertoire and start rebuilding her foundations. “It’s never a bad idea to return to old songs and see if they have new life for you.” Erik shuffled through the pieces she brought. “Start simple, let’s avoid challenging phrasing for now. Ah, how about this one?”

He regretted it the moment she began to sing. Caro Mio Ben was just a dreamy nothing of a song, one even children could learn and perform, but even professionals liked to keep around. There was just one problem; it was achingly romantic. Painfully so. 

He stopped her. “Now think about the passage here-- the lover is sighing. Try expressing that in your sound.”

It took his breath away, the caress of her voice. The measures were alive in her, a dance of poetry and song, made all the greater by the clarity of the melody and the yearning in her resonance.

“Like that?” she asked as she uncapped her water afterwards.

She understood far too well. “Yes… just like that. And continue.”

…

A burst of divine inspiration one morning spurred Erik into action. High school students were much harder to impress than hungover college students, so if he was going to instill the kind of awe he’d managed to inspire in graduate school, he’d have to up his game. He got to work early and busied himself for an hour or two burrowing into the school’s shared cloud and engaging in a little mischief.

When he popped over for coffee, the bounce in his step was enough to make the mask noticeable. It only dampened his glee a little. A few minutes later, Christine was rubbing her forehead when she plodded into the kitchen with her lunch.

“You’re here early,” she said. She looked exhausted. Possibly hungover.

“First cup is always the best. You okay?” 

“My roommate just finished a show and there was an after party.” She sighed and got a mug from the cabinet. “Ballerinas.”

Erik knew how performers cut loose in wrap parties. There was just one scar on his body he couldn't explain and the jagged scrape had been there one morning after completing a run of reworked Berlioz that had required a year of negotiations to use the entire expandable orchestra pit. All he knew was that the evening started with champagne and Jagermeister. He’d found his gashed leg wrapped in gauze and secured with bent bobby pins and satin ribbon the next day. Ballerinas could deal with anything.

“Dance hard, party hard?”

Christine dumped sugar into the cup and sloshed coffee over it. “My god. How can someone so tiny drink like that and not die?”

“Metabolism. And you’re going home right after the bell today. No singing today.” There were a few minutes to spare before they both needed to get to work, but the morning’s doing needed a partner in crime. You can’t have a secret so good and not share it. Besides, she had tipped him off.

“Hey, I have something that will cheer you up.”

“You have IV fluids?”

“Better. You know the older boys choir is doing open recital at lunch time, right?”

“Yeah. Got the email.”

He leaned close. Despite a night of revelry leaving her pale and shadowed, she was pretty as ever and smelled like soap and something fresh and green. “Don’t miss it.”

For that, he got a raised eyebrow, but the bell rang and they both hurried off.

To his credit, he only let it go on for two minutes before he returned the cloud’s original file settings, but the point had been made. Dr. B knew everything and if you even think about pranking him, all your music may just be replaced with the Mii channel theme and a riser of teenage boys will hero worship the mysterious half smirk in a too-small folding chair pretending to stir his coffee.

Christine’s color had returned, and Erik counted that as a win. To be fair, she was laughing so hard she nearly fell off the bench at the back of the room, but you take your victories as they come.

…

At their next lesson, they worked through three Italian pieces and focused on moving beyond the mechanics of the music and deepening her interaction with the song. It was lovely and wrenching in the very best way, to hear her expressing pain, delight, and longing in song. As the lesson started to close, Christine pulled a few sheets from her binder and held them out.

“Got something new?” Erik asked. 

“I wanted to start a new piece, if it’s not too late?”

Erik set the piece on the music stand. “We can give it a run through.” He could definitely kill some time. There was nothing at home but a dark room and another piano, so Erik scooted over so she could sit on his good side. “Have a seat, then. Let’s work through it. You play any piano?”

“A little. Just enough to tap through.” 

So they worked through the song. Sort of. They talked through the rhythm, they tapped through the tune, but they never really dug into it. But they sat shoulder to shoulder, which was fine. More than.

“Is there a set schedule for the next summer program?” she asked when they finished. “We haven’t heard specifics yet.”

“There is,” he said, and let his hands drift into a song. “Allen’s going to send it out next week. I told him not to wait.”

Christine watched his hands. “What piece is this? I know it’s Chopin, but which?”

“Nocturne fifteen. Like it?”

“Love it. I always liked piano and violin.”

He reached over her to reach lower notes. She did not lean away. “Your father, right? Violin?”

“Yep. And I just like piano.”

He looked at her. She was smiling gently, dreamy. Erik recalled his reflection and imagined what she was seeing. He’d been handsome, and in profile he wasn’t so bad. He could swing, miss, and keep playing. But if you don’t swing at all…

“Well, lucky you then,” he said lightly. Lighter than he felt.

A huff of a laugh. Appropriately soft for the music. “Busted,” she whispered. “I only come for the private concerts.” Her head leaned closer, just by his shoulder. Her curls were catching on his shirt.

“I don’t mind.” 

The air in the room shifted. It moved in new ways, and nudged their breaths to come a little faster. 

“Erik, I’m not keeping you from anything am I?”

“Still no plans. You?”

She exhaled, her smile audible, and rested her head on his shoulder for a moment. “No. Just this.”

Erik played until nine came around. He would have played longer, but she was tired and needed to go. But her words stayed with him all night long. 

_Just this._

...

The first half of summer was coming to an end and with it came another round of evening performances, recitals, and a school fundraiser. It had taken half a year, but Erik had managed to settle into the routine of daily activity overlaid by seasonal insanity. Everyone in the school turned their gear in the machine that churned out slightly more musically aware children, moderately polished teens, and some local professionals who needed coaching but couldn’t afford master-class level teachers.

As the afternoon session came to a close, parents and grandparents lined up outside the recital halls and the little dancers spun in circles until they fell in dizzy, giggling heaps. The tables in the kitchen filled to overflowing with plates of cookies and baskets of fruit, flowers, sandwiches, and, just as the summer brought new students to the program, their families brought new surprises to the banquet of random delights alongside the ever-beloved coffee pots.

It was noisy, it was difficult, and would require a drink later but though Erik was not comfortable, he’d at least grown accustomed to it. Certain benefits made it tolerable.

“Erik!” Christine called from her recital room. “When does your group go again?”

“At seven. Most of them left to eat. They’ll be back in time to change their shirts if they didn’t forget them.”

“Oh, they’ll totally forget them,” she laughed. Then her lips curled into a sweet little smile. “So you’re free for an hour or two?”

Oh no. There was no way she was wrangling him into this. “No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Christine, no. Absolutely not.”

The pout on her face was kittenish. It was unfair. “You’re no fun.”

“I am a god damned barrel of laughs but I don’t do the littles.” Knowing his pout was far more impressive than hers, he folded his arms. “They stare. What’s worse, their parents will stare.”

“You’ll be behind a set. They won’t even see you.” 

“No.”

“Pretty, pretty please?” And then she did it. The little minx opened those pretty eyes wide and let her lips go soft. 

A place that hadn’t been alive in a long time kicked to life. Little flushes of warmth, just ideas and feelings before, decided to crash full force. He knew, he knew, that she just needed a little help and was giving him a full frontal assault but it didn’t change the sparking energy that decided to wake up.

“Fine. As long as I’m behind something.”

Behind something ended up being a tree costume. Twisted paper branches with stapled leaves sprouted from his shoulders and flopped from a flimsy frame on his head. It was utterly ridiculous, but he got to see Christine guiding her six year old charges through three song and dance numbers while dressed as a ragged fairy so, on balance, not a bad trade. 

Plus, he kept catching glimpses of her smiles through the shredding paper branches. 

After the songs finished, Erik dashed out and stripped off the tree bits and hurried off to his recital room where Piangi’s class was just assembling. By the second piece, Christine was sneaking in and stood at the back. The ribbons and costume were gone and she looked just like she usually did for their lessons.

Which was why he missed a key. No one noticed. 

It was nearly eight in the evening when the school was finally quiet. Erik’s limbs were heavy and his head foggy. He’d been up early and managed to eat… something. At some point? The school had been full of people and the rhythm of his day had been thrown into chaos. His coffee breaks, mealtimes, and self care had been wreckage all week and as the worst of the messes were cleared away, Erik slumped over on his desk.

“Hey,” came a gentle voice from his doorway. “I was starving, thought you might be, too. I raided the kitchen before everything was gone or chucked.” Christine pulled the wagon he’d given her into his office. It was loaded with paper plates and plastic cups. 

Tank empty and bleary, Erik straightened up and tried to smile. “Why not.” 

Christine gave a tired laugh as she wheeled her wagon to his desk. “I have some of everything. Grab a plate.”

Erik shoved a mini muffin in his mouth and swallowed it nearly unchewed. In a minute, he could feel his mind clear a bit, and started loading a plate in earnest. The pair sat on the floor and just reached into the wagon for their next bites. Apple slices and carrots, because he needed it, a slab of cake because he wanted it. 

“I got part of the cheese and sausage tray, too. It’s in those cups. Kale salad?”

“Classy, and hell no.”

“I took the napkins with the cartoons on them.”

“Nice touch. What’s in the foil tray?”

“Homemade tamales.”

“ _Homemade_ …” Erik dropped his plate and reached for the tray. “I can’t believe you held out on me.”

“Hey! You’re sharing those!”

The two sat cross legged and crouched over the tray, forks in hand. After ten minutes, the tray was nearly empty. Erik dropped his fork and groaned. Eating so much after being so empty was a mistake, but he felt so pleasantly buzzed and full, the penalty could come later. The front of his desk was cool and he leaned against it, easing the pressure on his too-full stomach.

“I’m going to regret this later. Why did I eat the cake?”

Christine scooted next to him and grinned. “I saved my carrot cake for breakfast tomorrow.”

“You’ll hate yourself,” Erik said, though he had to admit the idea was tempting. What was more tempting was the idea of Christine in the morning, or feeding her little bites of cake. In bed. “We should both eat nothing but fruit and whole grains for a month.”

With a grimace, Christine rolled her tongue around her mouth. “Too late, I already hate myself.”

Those weren’t words Erik liked hearing. Even he never said them out loud. “Don’t… don’t say that.” He turned his head and felt the upper edge of the mask bump the desk. He was so tired and Christine’s hair was falling from her clips. “Don’t ever say that, okay? You’re too nice to say that.”

She turned. “I was just talking about my breath. I’m like… unkissable.”

His heart jumped. Just a little. In another moment, he’d prove her otherwise.

It took her a second, but she realized what she’d said. “I mean… oh, uh…” She sat back and blubbered a little.

The moment cracked. “I know what you meant. It’s fine, Christine.”

“No, you don’t. Erik, I--”

“It’s late. We’re both tired. Let’s just clean up and get some rest?”

Her eyes were a little glossy, but that was probably just the long day talking. 

That night, Erik stared at himself under a harsh overhead light. Reality was what it was, and she didn’t even know, probably never know. 

Had he misheard her? Maybe, but what was the point? Nadir would remind him what the point was, to be whole, and a whole person should be willing, but were they willing to be hurt? He didn’t want to risk that again. And it had been so long, the entire landscape of these things had changed. Maybe she didn’t have plans, but how long would that last? Was she going to pass on a normal guy for him?

He wanted to be that so much, but had no idea how to break through. There were so many barriers to everything. Every step was so hard, each one harder than the last. To be whole was to overcome so many things. 

With his nerve endings roaring under the harsh light and loud shower, Erik scrubbed off the long day and fired off a text canceling his next evening with Nadir. 

The next morning he got one back.

_Absolutely not. I’m having coffee withdrawal._

...

“I know what you’re doing, Erik,” Nadir said as Erik carefully spooned the foam for his coffee.

Erik set the coffee in front of him in silence, then prepared the pot for the next round. 

“I know, and if you think it will help, you are terribly wrong.”

“It will be easier, and how can that be a bad thing?” Erik huffed. He shuffled a stack of papers into order and set them by the piano to make room for the chess board. “It will make everything easier,” he said softly, then began arranging the pieces.

Nadir brought his cup and sat on the other side. “You cannot avoid complications. You just have to find which are the real ones and which are distractions. Then run headlong at the real and tell the distractions to get bent.” The coffee was good. Since Erik paid attention to details, it always was. How such an intelligent man could be so attentive to a cup of coffee but not his own needs was… well it was sort of how Nadir came to have this obtuse conversation. 

The game was set and it was Erik’s turn to begin, so of course he stood and went to the kitchen for more wine. “I’m trying to tell them to get bent in the nicest way I know how.”

“Real things won’t take orders, Erik. That’s why they’re the real ones.” 

“Says you.” Erik returned, full glass in hand and already eyeing the board.

“Well, I am a doctor of the mind. Give me a little credit.”

Erik’s opening move was strong and Nadir responded in kind. “I only want what’s best. For everyone.”

Lord, he was using the English opening. Erik was being predictable today. “My friend, you need to stop thinking about what’s best for everyone. Let everyone else figure it out for themselves and start working out how to do the same for yourself.”

That threw him, but would not not for long. Nadir would have to protect a knight in the next three moves. Erik debated one move and then chose another. “Did you?”

Nadir had him, and made a move. “Of course.”

Erik glanced up from the board, eyes suddenly wide and rimmed in drama. “How?”

God, this coffee was good. “I grew past my former self.” Erik blinked and sat back, half forgetting the game. Nadir took another sip and held up the little cup in salute. “And now I appreciate cardamom in my coffee. Why, what did you think I was talking about?”

Slack jawed was not a good look on Erik, but he carried it off better than one might expect. 

...

A week later, high school performers sang an acapella benefit concert, followed by a cello duet. Parents left bouquets strewn across the school, and the arrangements ended up scattered in various offices. Erik plucked a particularly nice rose from one and tucked it into Christine’s jacket.

The night before, after a second coffee, Nadir had reminded him that if Christine was interested, as he thought she was, she would make it clear. Since Erik had never had to try before, he had to pay more attention now. Some women were more subtle than others, and some just needed time.

“Now, my little Cara, she is bold. When I was slow, she made sure to let me know when to pick up the pace.”

“Nadir!”

“Erik, I am living my little life and you should too.”

So here he was, hoping she took it the right way. 

She wore the rose in her hair when she came that evening. Erik’s hands itched to tuck more into her curls. Instead he stretched his hands and picked up their last conversation right where they had left off.

“You mentioned some of the roles you understudied. What were some of your favorites?”

Christine shrugged. “I took what I could get. While I could.” 

Erik frowned. “While you could?” He hated the taste of those words. 

“When I was getting started out, I started seeing someone. His family were local patrons, huge in the theater community, endowments and that sort of thing.”

Oh, Erik thought. There was no way this story had a happy ending. Not when she was here and not on stage. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Christine’s usually bright voice was flat and blunt. “Nothing happened. The guy I was seeing didn’t support me, so the calls just… stopped.”

The timeline was shaky. How did this all fit together, he wondered. “And your father? You said he was in the symphony?” That hadn’t been in her Facebook. Not where he’d looked anyway.

Christine shrugged. “He had to retire around that time.” She plucked the flower from her hair and touched the softening petals. “You know, the old school guys lived as hard as they worked. Up all night, smoking and playing. He got… sick. Then he died two years later. After he passed, his old friends were helping me but when they passed, the roles weren’t there anymore.” 

Erik had to force his hands to unclench. What a petty bastard, carelessly ruining another person’s dreams because they were thoughtless. To add to her burdens. “I’m so sorry Christine.” 

“My career dried up. So, even though I went back, finished school and hustled, I couldn’t find a single audition. I had to start over.” She gave a weak smile and looked around. “Voila. Here I am.”

She thought she was middling, unremarkable. Someone had put that thought there. To what end, Erik could not imagine, but it muted her, dulled her shine, and then… what? What had brought her to this? What could make it better?

He had an idea. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Erik pulled some papers from a folder and handed it to her. “Here. We’ll do this today.”

As Christine looked them over, he turned down the lights in the room. Softer light would help her relax, help her unwind.

She flipped through the sheets and looked up at him. “I can’t remember the last time I sang this.”

Erik retreated to the keyboard and waited until she stood by, determination holding her firm against whatever was pressing down on her. 

Christine bit her lip as she stared down at the papers. “Erik, I…I only understudied for this part, like I said. I wasn’t very good at it and I never even went on…” Christine rambled.

Erik held up a hand to stop her protests. “You’ll remember.”

Steeling her nerves and straightening, she let out a large breath and nodded to him to begin.

Today would be different. She needed it. Erik pushed her harder that day and she rose to meet his challenge. She flung herself into the warm ups, followed his instructions to release her neck and sing from her heart, not her mind, and forget the words. To just _sing_. 

She was pink with effort and delight when Erik joined in. A true duet, not just two people singing at each other. And God help him, she was singing for him; that sensual voice of hers filling the room. He meant to mark his own part, letting her take the lead, but she locked her eyes with his and there was no way to deny her. She pulled the song from him and gave it more life.

He joined his voice with hers. They shook the air in the room and passion coursed in his veins like lightning, igniting him from the inside out. The veins in Christine’s neck stood out as she threw herself into every note.

He wanted to liberate her—from the past, from disappointments and pain. Give her wings. 

And when the song reached its climax, she did not fly. She _soared_.

When they finished, her forehead was bright with sweat, panting for breath. Illuminated. 

“You’re incredible,” she said, awed, and ran her hands through her wild hair. Erik’s hands itched to run through the curls, but he sat still, preening under her praise. “That was amazing. Together, we’re… I didn’t know I could sound like that.”

“I did,” Erik blurted. He looked down. “I knew.” He wiped his sweating palms on his trousers, tension tightening his back.

She went still and Erik, resolutely avoiding her gaze, organized his music. As he closed his folders, he could sense her at his left shoulder. A light touch. Warm, spreading warmth, loosening him. He leaned towards her. Didn’t mean to; couldn’t help it. The heat was still in his blood, molten from their high. It was too much.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Erik froze. If he was professional, he would have acknowledged her thanks and ended the lesson. If he was a kind teacher, he would have reached up and patted her hand. If he was suave, he’d grin up at her. But he was none of these, and he needed to feel something.

Erik leaned close and nudged her arm with his cheek. Touch, skin-to-skin touch, warm and real that moved against him. It ached, a tenderness so intense he feared he would whimper. 

She needed to leave. Now, before he embarrassed them both.

Erik began to straighten up, desperate to navigate this back into safer territory. Once he moved, she would take her hand away and they could go back to being instructor and pupil. Indeed, the hand began to lift—

And lightly touched his cheek. Just a touch.

Erik jerked his face away from before he realized what he had done. 

“I’m sorry, Erik, I-”

“No, I just…” He struggled to speak. When he turned back, Christine was wringing her hands. 

“No,” he said, “I’m just not… not used to …” His throat tightened and choked off his words as he tried to gesture to the space between them. Too much space between them, not enough. What was she seeing now? A crumpled wretch, on the verge of falling off his chair? The room was spinning, and he needed something to hold or he was going to slip down. He needed…

He needed to _feel_ something. 

Slowly he turned back and she was still standing there… waiting. 

Before he could think, Erik reached for her, pressing her hand to his unmarred cheek as he spun on the bench. The warmth spread as she rested the other palm on his shoulder, then smoothed over his shirt in an embrace. 

An embrace. The very idea blazed. The whimper grew into a moan and he pressed forward, following her touch, wanting more of it. The movement of his head bumped her arm, her side, and her hands cradled his head, his neck. Erik wrapped his arms around her, her softness, the rise of her breath, the catch in it, and the curve of her side under her soft dance clothes and breathed in the smell of warm skin. 

Christine hummed, exhaling, and the hand on her cheek traced over his jaw, just by his ear, and a shiver ran up his back, sending alarms off over every nerve ending. Dangerous. Uncharted. 

Touch; the feel of it given, not taken. Without exam lights or notepads. Two people clinging to each other for comfort and something else. It was unbearably intimate, and as much as he wanted it to go on Erik wanted more than this and a hug was not the same as… other things. He turned his face towards Christine to breathe her in and steal just a second more before they needed some distance. 

She was soft and true in his arms. Erik relaxed his hold and started to lean away. Like cool breeze and music; soft lights and warm water. Limbs rearranged, at once comfortable and sensual, soothing and stimulating. Cool air on his face.

Cool air on his face?

Christine’s intake of breath was fast and deep, as though preparing to sing. Or scream.

Erik was dazed. As he’d nuzzled against her, the mask had been dislodged. In shock, he realized fully half of his horror was on display and under her hands. Touching him. Bare. Exposed. 

A nasty voice murmured in his mind. _Repulsive_. 

With a jolt, Erik jerked back, covering himself with a hand. His breath heaved, and he turned away from her. 

“You should go.”

Christine stiffened, eyes wide and brows knit, as her hand remained suspended where his face had been. “Erik?” 

“I can’t do this. I’m not your Quasimodo.”

She gasped and jerked back. “That’s not--”

He cut her off, pressing his hand harder to his face, clutching at the gnarled twists. “Go. Please.” He was begging. She could not be here for this. Too fast, he couldn’t handle whiplash like this. It bubbled up his chest in a rush and stung his eyes. It was already too late; he felt the first hot tears break free.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped on a broken cry. “I’m so sorry, Erik.” She ran out, flinging the door open to bang against the wall.

Once she was out of sight, Erik let out a sob. It wracked his bones, shook the abandoned pages from the piano, and curled his fingers into claws. In his own ears, strangely detached, it was inhumanly sad, full of loneliness and despair. She would hear it and know what a terrible, pathetic thing she had touched. 

He lurched off the piano bench into a spindly heap. He didn’t deserve her kindness and compassion. She’d spent enough of herself caring for her father, she didn’t need to waste her time on him. He didn’t deserve whatever this was turning into—he was dangerous, negligent, and no amount of settlement payouts would bring back Nadir’s family. He was poisonous. Polluted. Corrosive. Jesus, just look at him.

Wait...

A whisper in his mind said _stop_. A trickle of self awareness. Newly found, and as delicate as a strand. 

Erik sighed. If knew Nadir these thoughts, he would disrupt the happiness his friend had found. Nadir would worry, and when Nadir worried, he abandoned everything but Erik, and Nadir had just gotten his life back. He could not do to Nadir what had been done to Christine. Not any longer, not when they’d both come so far.

He owed Nadir this, so Erik unfolded himself and surveyed the whirl of papers around him. With an ache that wasn’t there before, he picked them up, ordering them as he went, and carefully set Christine’s aside for her to collect next week.

If she came back. 

If Christine came back, he would be nothing but professional. No more personal details, teasing, touching or flirting. That was over. It was enough that she came and allowed him the privilege of helping her blossom.

It would have to be enough. It could never be any more.

Facing the wall, half in shadow, he lifted his mask off and wiped his face. Salt was hard on his skin.

A movement out of the corner of his eye shifted his focus to the shape behind him. An outline in the doorway. He hastily shoved the mask back into place and turned.

She looked small, arms tucked to her sides and feet together. Nothing like the woman who sang like it was a victory. Erik hated that he had done that.

“ _Christine_ ,” he breathed. 

“Erik,” she said softly, stepping into the room cautiously. She swallowed hard. “I couldn’t leave… I couldn’t leave you like that. No one should be so… alone.” Christine set down her bag and walked slowly to the piano to retrieve her music.

Hope is the blade that cuts through darkness, but it also makes you bleed.

He swallowed. “I’m always alone.” 

Time curved around them, lending strange speed to her movement. Fluid, slow, and careful. Christine was careful to stay in full view as she approached, and as she stepped into the dim light, Erik saw the blotchy patches around her eyes, and the streaks down her face. She reached to him and took his hand in hers.

“Not if you don’t want to be.”

Erik’s chest tightened. Bruising pressure. Shaky breaths. In and out.

Her light touch holding his too-thin fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, raising her hand, his lips grazing the back of her hand. So tender against his mouth. Another touch, on his shoulder, soothing, stroking him lightly, gently. Too much and not enough.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” The backs of her fingers stroked his cheek, down the unscarred side of his neck and back again. The rise and fall of her breaths against his chest, so close. What had Nadir said? Pay attention. Erik turned his face to those fingertips and kissed them again. 

Her breath caught, and she did not move away. The mask obscured her only slightly, but she was looking at him, not the mask. His eyes. His jaw and… lips.

The first brush made him gasp. A pull, a light slide, a whisper of breath across his uncovered face set the rest of him sparking. Her name broke from his mouth and she came for the sound of it. There was trace of salt that disappeared as soon as he recognized it. Then soft, soft-wet and warm. How did he live without this, the way she wrapped one arm over and one under his, clamping him close. Without the little pulls at his lip asking for attention so that he had to give it. What else were his lips for? And the little sounds she made tasted like rain and sounded like a symphony. 

He wondered what he tasted like. She seemed to like it.

She finally let him go, and inhaled deeply. He’d been stealing her breath. “Christine?”

“You’re not alone, Erik.”

“Why?” The question wrenched itself from deep inside. 

She picked up her things and came back, wrapping one arm around him before kissing his cheek. “Because I want to be with you.” Another kiss, softer this time, and then a gentle good night. 

Erik stood, rooted to the spot for entire minutes. He touched his lips and marveled at their faint swelling. When his feet found the floor once again, he gathered his things and went home.

How to unpack the evening was beyond him, so he settled for unloading his bag and eating whatever was handy. He had not broken down like that in years. Somewhere, lost among the endless sunrises and flipped pages of calendars, he’d stopped caring. It wasn’t even a matter of about what, he’d just… stopped.

A wave of sensation rushed over him. If this is what caring felt like now, then why did he feel so lost? Erik walked his house, searching for an anchor to hold and found nothing. There were no books he wanted to read, no movie or show he wanted watch. There was just the restless ache in his legs and the churning under his skin that refused to calm. So he shifted, one chair to the next, hoping to find a position that didn't make him want to crawl away from his own bones.

He wanted to wrap around hers.

As he paced his house, he found himself humming her little song. He toyed with it as she did, and his eyes fell upon a scribbled motif of his aria. In his whirling mind, the two songs began to intertwine, wreathing and decorating each other. 

Dizzy, his mind tangled in their music, he turned around and raced down the hall to his piano, flinging paper and snatching pens, scribbling in the moonlight, long after dawn, and into the night once again.

...


	5. Easy to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions are loud and hard to misunderstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a new job, have three papers in various stages of review, and it's the end of the school year. Madness abounds. Also, kisses are super hard to write.

Bleary even for a Monday, Erik dropped his bag onto his recital room desk and turned on his computer. Most mornings he took a minute to copy over new midi files from his flash drive and let his eyes skim over the easily dismissed file labeled Thing. But not today. He’d managed to go all weekend without looking at it. Unfortunately he’d also not bothered to check his email before leaving home, so he immediately logged in.

God, he hated opening attachments. There was no escaping the school-wide group email. He used to delete them immediately but now he scoured them for glimpses of Christine with her little dancers. 

Sometimes she was in tights, other times she wore a costume. It was adorable. 

He must be brewing a headache. There was no other explanation for this nonsense. Too many nights composing without sleep. Sleep was a boring distraction when he was writing.

So, coffee. His cup from home was still hot. 

And Christine. What kind of reception could he expect after last week? The weekend had been an exercise in dawning self awareness. A whole weekend of wordless pacing, composition, and reflection. If music was a language, he’d been pouring his soul out in drops across a staff.

Erik’s hands stalled over the keyboard. He’d avoided the mirror, his reflection, all weekend. It hurt to think about. By the piano, in the shadows she’d seen enough to know what was under the mask, feel a little of what was there. Seen the edge of the hairpiece. And yet she’d come back.

_I want to be with you._

His lips still tingled. 

A rude ping announcing a message from Dr. Allen made Erik jump, suddenly back in his desk chair. He scanned through it, then read it again to be sure.

He stood up quickly and looked around. The acoustic foam was ragged, sure, and the chipped desk and chair were a bit… dated. The carpets had seen better days. But… a total remodel of his recital room? He’d have to use Reyer’s for the staff vocals. He’d have to roam around to find space to work on the arrangements.

And… oh _damn._

…

“Nadir, I need to talk to you. Now.”

Two minutes later, Erik’s phone rang. He put it on speakerphone so he could continue pacing his office, wringing his hands.

“I have an appointment in ten minutes, my friend.”

“They’re remodeling my room.”

“Lovely! I always thought your master was a little stark. Are you doing the bathroom as well?”

“No, damn it. My recital room. At the school. They’re so delighted with the work I’m doing that they’re kicking me out.”

Silence. “That’s… good? Isn’t it?”

Erik spun around and gripped the edge of his crumbling desk. “I’ll have to do the morning vocals in Reyer’s rooms. He collects dragon figurines and his office smells like microwaveable burritos. They’re getting me a rolling cart to go from room to room like some traveling side show.”

“But you’ll have the nicest office when they’re done.”

“That’s not the issue,” Erik snarled.

“Ah,” Nadir hummed, suddenly enlightened. “Your after-hours work. Your protégé.”

“Christine. Her name is Christine.”

Nadir was quiet. “Have you gone slow?”

Erik let go of the desk and stood, his hand slapping to his side weakly. “Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

What did it mean? Erik ran his hands over his chest, where the heat had blossomed while they sang together. Rubbed at his sternum where flutters had clutched his chest tight.

“We sang a duet,” Erik managed. 

“Is that a metaphor? Slang?”

“Don Pasquale,” Erik clarified. “Tornami. The love duet.” 

Nadir was quiet, and Erik imagined he could hear a teapot being prepared. “Promising. And how did you feel?”

Erik closed his eyes and allowed his senses to recall the moment. He’d floated, sparkling, alight. Words were empty, yet could not contain the feeling. “For a moment, Nadir, we were… angels.” Erik was breathless, his arms flung wide as he let it wash over him. They'd soared! 

“So what happened?” Nadir asked.

They'd crashed. A thousand ants crawled over his skin with their tiny clawed feet. “She saw. Under.”

Quiet. A sigh. “You should have called me sooner.” Another sigh. “Did she scream?”

Strange that those words should sound so… flat. “No, but…”

“You did not react well, I take it.” Nadir knew every one of his misdirected nerve endings.

“No. I yelled. I made her leave.” Memory, wrapped in shame and topped with a bow. And yet… “But Nadir, she came back. She came back, and... then she kissed me.”

“Well, bravo!” Nadir said cheerfully. 

Erik clawed at his face, wishing he could just tear it away. Why did he have to be this way? Quivering and needy and raw and alive with no excuse for it. Old thoughts shook off their dust and clamored at his mind. 

“How can you say that? How can you sound so happy? You lost--”

“Silence. Do _not_ do this. I do not give you permission to use them like this. You will not use me to hold yourself back, do you understand me?” The sound of Nadir’s breaths, heavy with old grief, drowned out Erik’s own. When it quieted, Nadir spoke again. “So. She came back?”

With a shudder, Erik recalled. “She came back. She… held me.”

“My friend,” Nadir began. “You are in trouble.”

Erik dropped his arms. “Help me.”

“You own a piano. Help yourself.”

“So?”

Nadir groaned. “If you cannot solve this, I will call the university and ask them to revoke your degree.”

Have her in his home? When things had changed so much? “I can’t do that. What would she think?”

“Despite your best efforts, she might get the idea that you like her and maybe for more than just her voice. She seems to reciprocate; give the woman some credit! You can figure it out from there, but be honest with her. When is her next session? Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“If she comes, you have what you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know--”

“I have to go, Erik. My appointment is here. We’ll talk soon.”

“Fine.”

“No,” Nadir said quickly. “Erik, we will talk soon.”

Erik nodded at the phone’s glowing screen. “Thank you, Nadir.”

…

Odd. Every ring and alert on a phone, every crack of laughter, blast of a car horn, or dull grind of machinery was a sensation that pressed or splashed over his skin, yet when he was the maker, his own hands coaxing notes from an instrument-- there was peace.

You can’t tickle yourself, either, but that didn’t make it any less interesting. 

No one should be alone. Huh. Christine wasn't the first person to say that to him. Wasn't the first to say it when he was vulnerable. He might not be able to tickle himself, but the thought made a warm wave ripple over him. 

After finishing the day's work, Erik shelved binders and closed software, his head light as air and full of funny ideas. Had he fooled himself? Misinterpreted Christine's smiles and stories, her flirting? The shared music? 

Had she? 

Erik stacked his books of Italian arias and lined them up on his shelf by size. Then he dropped his pens into a black cup and gathered up the day’s sticky notes. 

He was not a fool; life had not been so sweet as to let him delude himself. Reality played a starring role in his mirror every day. 

Shared voices. 

_I want to be with you._

The room was as tidy as it was going to get, and he still had twenty minutes until the lesson.

.

At six twenty-five, Christine crept into the recital room and gave a shy smile. He seen that smile in her posts, preparing for auditions and final exams. But if she was nervous, Erik felt a mess, at once skittish and resigned, braced for any conversation opener from the usual ‘how did it happen’ to ‘how can you sing like that?’

She set her bag down and took a deep breath. “Are you feeling better?”

He hadn’t prepared for that. No one but Nadir ever asked. “I-- yes.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “Because I spent all weekend trying to figure out what to say today and couldn't come up with anything better.”

“Oh.” 

She pulled her music binder from her bag and hugged it. “I think it’s your turn.”

Words. He needed words. Monosyllabic jibberish wasn’t enough. Letters floated and skated across his tongue until a few landed.

“The school is going through some changes. Specifically in this room.” 

“You’re leaving?” She asked suddenly, leaning forward. The binder groaned in protest. “Is it because of…”

“No! No, they’re remodeling.” Christ, he could have done better than that, except that she was here and Nadir said that would mean something. “Allen says it’s because I’ve updated so much of the program, but what it means is that I’m losing my recital room and office while the work is going on. Which means, I won’t have a place for our… time.” 

“Oh,” Christine said, and plucked at the hem of her shirt. “I, um. I understand. How long will the work take?”

He shrugged. “They’re saying six weeks.”

“Oh,” she said on a soft breath. Swallowing hard, she gave him a watery smile. “But you don’t think so?”

“I think it should take a month. As a contractor, I would say closer to three. Give or take.” Just as Erik was about to suggest his alternative, Christine interrupted.

“I’m really going to miss this.” She reached out a hand and patted the piano fondly and Erik felt the pang of proxy affection. “Maybe we can start again afterwards? If you, um, still have time?” 

Erik had given the ‘maybe we need space’ talk once. He’d started it a little like that, so he leapt to end the idea. 

“Well, I was wondering… if you wouldn’t be uncomfortable, that is… I mean, I have a piano. You know, at home.” Erik rolled up his sleeves a little and patted the trusty upright. A full two inches of scarring was visible on his arm. Was he testing her, or himself? Hard to say. “It’s even nicer than this one. What do you say?”

Her mouth was hanging open. Not much. Not enough to catch flies or anything but enough that she was surprised when she took a breath to speak and found she was halfway there. She’d crushed her music a bit, too. 

“You’re not wearing your cufflinks.”

“I usually do.”

Christine blinked, then looked at his sleeves. His arms. “You’re not right now.”

“I don’t wear them to play. They hit the keys and it’s distracting.” Oh look, he’d made his own opening. He could be smooth. Couldn’t he? A little? Erik very unsmoothly cleared his throat. “And, you know, I’m pretty distracted already so… I can’t handle any more, um, distractions.”

Christine cocked her head to the side. “Are you saying that I’m distracting?”

“Maybe?”

She giggled. Bells, raindrops on glass. Scattered light off facets.

He knew how to be cutting and clever or academic and calculating, but but he didn't know how to be sincere and open. Maybe Nadir had been right all those years ago. Now he’d been wearing a mask for far too long. 

“When do you lose this room?”

“In two weeks, but, maybe…” He was about to cross a big bridge here. If she stepped across with him… This is what Nadir was always telling him to do, right? To live? It was easy when she was smiling at him. “Maybe you might like to get accustomed to the space sooner?”

A few curls had fallen free of her artful twists and they bounced when she looked up. “I’d like that,” she said. “And I’m not saying that because it’s a nicer piano.”

…

There were no full mouthed kisses that session, but there had been a kiss on his cheek. Not a quick friendly one, either. This… lingered. Her breath by his ear. 

Her voice had been round and clear and lent a mineral note to the room; a tang of height and space, of buttresses and arches. Erik filled his lungs and held it in.

He finally shut down the computer and pulled the flash drive. What a funny thing it was, with it’s little reminders. Well-trod thoughts, deep tracks to follow. By the time he was home, a new thought was taking root, not quite fully formed but inescapable. Like a good melody, this idea needed time to form.

…

Nadir spooned sauce over his fish and sighed when his host sprang from the table once again. Since their first meeting and over the more than decade since, he’d known Erik as a man of constant, buzzing energy. This, however, was completely ridiculous.

“Sit, Erik,” he said as a flurry of movement circled the coffee table. “Whatever it is, it can wait until after you eat.” 

“I’m just moving these papers.”

Erik shuffled a stack into tidy order and sat. Then did it twice more. Finally, Nadir had seen enough and as Erik nudged away from the table yet again, he stood and clamped a hand on Erik’s shoulder.

“It can wait, Erik. Sit and eat with me.” 

With a sigh, Erik sat and laid his napkin back in his lap. Nadir eyed him suspiciously until he was chewing. “So, nervous?”

The fork clattered. “You’re enjoying this,” Erik groused, and took a deep swallow of wine.

“Just an observation. And the fish is excellent. That’s another observation.” 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Erik mumbled around a mouthful.

Nadir laughed. “I’m more of a Dr. Watson, don’t you think?” Erik’s elaborate eyeroll, enhanced by partially blocked delivery from behind the mask, was prodigious. It was a wonder he wasn’t dizzy afterwards. They ate quietly for another minute, then Erik began to shift in his chair like a child.

He looked around, face painted with distraction. “Does this place need color? I could get some pillows or put away the black and white stuff?” 

“She’s not coming for the decor, my friend.”

Erik huffed. “I know, I know, but… I mean. It’s so…” The words faded even if the meaning didn’t. 

“Again, that’s not why she’s coming.”

“You’ve got art and… things. Your style might be what got you a girl.”

“I’m almost sixty, I do not have a girl. Besides, Cara and I have been together nearly a year. What you don’t realize is that the first thing I had to do was let Rook go.” Erik may have jerked at the mention of her name, but Nadir had loved her and buried her. “It was only after I put the last of her things away that I could move on.”

“But you loved her.”

The little clench in Nadir’s chest was still there, only smaller. His heart no longer threatened to burst. “I still do. Nothing will change that.”

“I can’t just put this away,” Erik said, waving his hand by the mask.

“No, but you can come to terms with it.” This was what it had come to. All these years and Erik hadn’t really fully dealt with it all. Guilt and shame and self loathing had mangled itself across his brow. Nadir lifted his waterglass. “Christine seems to have.”

“She hasn’t see everything.” Erik’s eyes fixed upon his plate, prodding the fish as sauce slid between the flakes. 

“She saw how big the mask is. She knows there’s more.”

Erik looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

For such an intelligent man, Erik’s blind spots were large enough to drive entire dreams through. It endeared him to Nadir so much that he could not help but berate and advise him. Nadir rose and took his plate with him to the sink, then brought the chessboard to the table. 

“I’m counting on it. Don’t disappoint me.”

…

Erik played the worst chess of his life that night. Nadir beat him two games to one and only let out a rumbling laugh when Erik had suggested best of five. 

“My friend, you need less strategy and more sleep.” Nadir had drained his water glass. “You need to relax.”

Erik had snapped to his feet, animated with enough nervous energy to power a small city. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Fine. Just don’t drink any.”

Erik served only one to his old friend before the evening ended on a two-two tie and Nadir left for the evening, promising to be available until seven the next evening. 

“I promised Cara sushi this Friday.”

“But that’s when Christine’s coming!”

Nadir grinned devilishly. “Heaven works mysteriously, does it not?” He turned serious for a moment. “And Erik, please, whatever is holding you back, cut it away. Nothing soars that is tied to the ground.”

...

The hard drive was slick in his hands as Erik turned it over and over, fingertips familiar with every corner and the distances between. There was the mark where it was scuffed (dropped once), and the scratch by the port (when he’d stolen the data in the first place). It was pointless to spend his time thinking about what held him back. He’d had a decade to think about it and it always came back to that moment. Not the pain, the heat, the surgeries or the time in school.

It wasn’t even the deaths. Exactly. Not quite.

Erik shifted on the couch and examined the hard drive again. Shiny on one side, matte on the other. He’d kept so much garbage on it, from music and articles and his old school files to recipes and other digital bric-a-brac. Nothing had been loaded onto it since the brief, disastrous return to the architecture firm when he found the trail and followed it, copying everything he touched, unsure of relevance but certain the landscape could not be trusted.

How could you trust after all that?

Yet... It wasn’t the deaths. It was the sliver of doubt that the original investigation, the one that found the contractor culpable, was wrong. That he really _had_ been derelict or negligent and yet lived; sensitive, scarred, but alive. That he had ended people who had brought beauty into the world.

The hard drive’s shiny side slid through his fingers. Poor design. It was how the scuff mark had got there. It might not even work anymore after being dropped. Electronics were like that.

If the first lesson at his place went well, he’d check. He’d plug it in and attempt to start up the ten year old hard drive. If it did, he’d work out the next step after that.

…

Friday was surreal, and not just because the first crew was crawling over his office and recital room like insects, extending their measuring tape proboscises across every edge and surface. Intermittent questions Erik had no answers for ranged from the year the room was built and the name of the contractor who installed the acoustics to what colors was he planning to base the design around. The disruptions were annoying but tolerable right up until the emails started coming from Dr. Allen. Lists of links and attached carpet catalogs were the last straw.

He needed a break from the chatter and constant _zip-snap_ of measuring tapes.

It was also surreal because something was changing. There would be a lesson, but at his home. At the lovely living room grand piano and the digital composition keyboard. In his home. His space.

But first, coffee. The kitchens were empty, so Erik filled his cup and debated the wisdom of returning to his office so soon. If he went back, he’d be sucked back into the disordered noise of the crew and be on Allen’s radar, badgered about his preference for one shade of gray over another. Erik dropped his phone on a table, sat, and let his eyes cross. He faced the wall for a moment and nudged at the mask. Pressure was nothing to mess with.

His phone vibrated, crawling across the table. Another email from Allen, this one about office furniture. Erik turned his phone face down and looked for anything to distract himself. There were always magazines and catalogs in here, and he reached for the closest one.

Dance gear. Why not. Christine’s leggings and wrap tops didn’t spring from nowhere. The era of pink tutus was long past and now sleek angles of soft fibers and gauze were more common. Erik flipped through and learned a new appreciation for the art of descriptive writing when ‘flowing’ was differentiated from ‘graceful’.

“You know,” a familiar voice from the doorway said. There was a smile in the words. “If you want, I can tell you which ones have better seams, but I have a feeling we need different fits.”

The little smirk on Christine’s face widened when Erik looked up. “Tempting, but I think I prefer the orchestra pit.” 

She pushed away from the doorway and headed toward the counter. “You’re probably right.” Before Erik could overthink what she meant by that, she filled her coffee cup and turned. “I’d hate to miss your playing.”

He wrapped his hands around his warm cup. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

Smooth. That was smooth, and Christine did a poor job hiding her smile behind her cup. Erik knew he was smiling back and that probably ruined his flirt, but he didn’t care. They were past pretending this was casual interest, no matter how unpracticed he was. Erik motioned to the chair to his left, and Christine glanced at the clock before sitting next to him.

“I only have a few minutes. Meg’s class and mine are drilling with Madame Giry, so they’ll be nice and tired by the time I get them back.”

“Sounds like you have firsthand experience.”

She laughed, wincing. “Madame is old school. You know, if my voice work keeps improving,” she began.

“There’s at least three choirs who would love to have you right now. I could put in a word.” Erik offered. 

Christine’s smile glowed. “I’ll definitely think about it.” 

Like a pair of grinning idiots, they sat staring at each other, on the verge of leaning in but this was work and other coffee lovers might walk in at any moment. A moment later, one did. It broke the mood but not the warmth that made it.

“Are we still on for tonight?” she asked. Words again, and Erik weighed four variations on ‘yes’.

“Oh yeah.” Of course, he settled on the worst one. “I’ll text you the address,” he said quickly, and reached for his phone. When hers pinged, she looked at the screen and smiled. 

“That’s not far from my roommate’s guy. I’ll get a ride with her.”

Erik was back at his desk, pleasantly buzzing with anticipation for nearly a quarter of an hour when Carlotta and Piangi came in. He'd not prepared at all.

…

Christine waved at her ride when Erik opened the door, and the late model Audi pulled away with a snappy honk. The driver's wave was barely visible through the tinted windows.

“Your roommate?” Erik didn’t know many ballerinas who drove luxury vehicles.

“Yeah,” Christine laughed. “Don’t be fooled. Gia Sorelli just knows when to accept gifts.”

“Huh. The boyfriend?” Erik held the door and took Christine’s purse. She was carrying her music binder. Only her music binder.

“He lives a few blocks away. I think the plan is to use me as the excuse to leave, then wait the appropriate amount of time before accepting his invitation to stay the night.” She went ahead of him and left him watching as the glinting silver car left the street. “She’s either going to be minted or broke at the end of this.”

To be fair, it was probably a bit too much to hope she'd bring a bag. “Who is he?”

“Trust fund baby. Owns a football team and has to have the most beautiful woman in the room on his arm.”

Erik closed the door and set Christine’s purse on the couch. “Sounds like a quality guy.”

A soft snort of laughter. “Gia’s got brains. He doesn’t, but no one seems to hold that against him, least of all Gia.”

“Glad it’s working out for her.” Erik filled glasses of water and paused in the kitchen. Was that what this was? Was he supposed to go car shopping next? He held out a glass for her.

She took it and drank. “She’s happy. She wanted a patron, and isn’t crude enough to be picky about it. I would have shoved him down the stairs by now, but we want very different things, I guess. ”

Erik rolled up his cuffs. It was a full ten seconds before he asked the obvious. “What do you want?”

A hint of a smile and a twinkle. How dare she twinkle in his house where he had no defense against it. Against her. No office and emails or children dashing in and out by a kitchen. Just the two of them and all the privacy in the world.

She smiled. “I want an accompaniment.”

He was most sincerely, utterly screwed.

…

The lesson was genuinely a lesson. They didn’t sprawl out across the piano or fling themselves at each other during a duet or any other scenarios his mind had unhelpfully conjured. They did, however, hold each other’s eyes too long, with enough intensity to make his head swim. More than once he had to look back to the keyboard or risk flubbing a measure.

Scales swooped and grace notes sparkled. If it was possible to paint with sound, Christine added color and curves where his house was muted and smooth, sculpting the very air with bright trills and wide dramatic strokes. Notes hung in the air, as if the walls were pleased to cling to them, the hallway absorbing the sound for later. Even his house seemed taken with her.

After they worked though a baroque piece and Erik was prepared to call it a night, her phone chirped, and Christine checked her texts. “Gia will be here in ten minutes.”

Erik stood from the piano and stretched. “How’d that last one feel?” It sounded amazing, but how it felt in the body was another matter. Best not to phrase it that way.

Christine downed half of her water and gasped to catch her breath. “Great! I don’t know, but I think your house just makes me sound good.”

“You relaxed. You were free.” Erik shuffled papers together and went for water. “A free voice is a beautiful voice.”

Tap water was hardly cold this time of year, so Erik took his glass to the freezer and dug out some ice. When he stood, about to close the freezer, Christine was joining him in the kitchen. 

“That could apply to a lot of things, don’t you think?” She said, tugging her cardigan close as she cooled. “Beauty isn’t the absence of flaws.”

Wordlessly, Erik took her glass and went to refill it. “That’s generous.” 

“Maybe.” Christine’s usually perfect posture was loose and fluid as she leaned back and hopped up on the kitchen island. 

Erik dropped ice into the glass. He avoided these kinds of conversations. Beauty may be on the inside, but he wasn’t willing to unzip his chest to give everyone a chance to find out.

The big cubes cracked musically as water poured over them. He didn’t hold it against her. Not Christine, who had been down hard roads herself. But it was one thing to take care of your suffering father; it was something else to touch ugliness. To be ugly. 

Ugly could be so much more than what was in a reflection.

He turned off the tap and went to hand her the glass. “Words are easy to say, Christine.” When she didn’t reach to take it, Erik stepped closer to set it on the counter. Her hand on his shoulder made him stop.

“Yes, they are.”

Curious, Erik looked up and, in the space of a heartbeat, all went still and the questions were wiped out and replaced with a multiplicity of new ones, like how had she moved so quickly and had he ever kissed up like this before? Hands on his shoulders drifted to his neck, sending shivers across his face and down his back. 

It was a quick, sipping thing, this kiss. The funny thing about that was, the moment Christine drew back, he followed. Surprise could paralyze him for only so long when this was all he’d been thinking of for days. Erik followed her until his knees were mashed against the cabinets and hers were on either side of him. 

Her lips slid against his, her chin and nose nudging the mask until she delicately pivoted the lower part to the side.

“Christine, no,” Doubt of many shades bubbled up and Erik was about to pull away, to clap a hand against the mask to secure it, when he was pulled by his shirt and plunged headlong into slurring overtures, riots of sensation that quivered beneath his skin. There was no room in his mouth for protest because she took the space; he gladly gave it. 

“Yes, Erik,” Christine murmured, trailing her lips to his jaw. Warmth spiraled out and wrapped around his limbs. And she is blazing, her body pressed to his and her lips carving an arc, now on his cheekbone and by his eye. His brow. 

She is a siren. The taste of salt on her neck is proof. 

This may still go wrong. He may still be more than she wants or is prepared to deal with, but one more kiss on her cheek had her turning back to him and her lips met his once again. This one was different. It was hungry. Starving. Her lips parted again, twisting his insides into looping knots as he gasped a breath and was drawn in deeper.

Their hands were roaming, grips tightening, when a staccato honk came from the front of the house, ending the kiss with their breaths loud in their ears. They skipped banalities and let their bright eyes and bruised lips do the talking as she gathered her things.

Erik shifted the mask back into place, and when Christine’s eyes clouded for a brief second, he knew it would be soon. Not tonight, but soon. Then another kiss at the door, soft lipped and full of more to come. That was the only reason he could bear to let her go.

She was in the car and driving away when Erik closed the door, then collapsed against it, sliding down to the floor. The walls had seen it, and the kitchen could attest. Witnesses for when Nadir asked the inevitable. On wobbly legs, Erik walked to his desk and opened the drawer. The hard drive slid forward, bunching up a few notepads and pens, and Erik snatched it out and lugged it in to his desktop before he could think twice.

The light on the hard drive blinked once, twice, and the thing whirred to life. A new window popped open and promptly filled in with dozens of files. 

So it worked. He could figure the rest out tomorrow. For now he would lean back and let his mind relish the evening. If he tried, he could still hear her, gorgeous ricochets of colorful sound replayed in his mind and along his bones. Erik closed his eyes and drifted, lost in their pull, and gathered the ether in his arms to kiss her echoes.

... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The absence of flaws is not beauty.  
> The absence of cruelty is not kindness.  
> The absence of hate is not love.  
> We need more than the absence of things.  
> We need so much more.


	6. Over the Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Power outages, pianos, and prime rib.  
> They say gray has all the colors of the spectrum...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I left a job, started a new one, remodeled a bathroom, wrote other stuff, and have a few papers in review. Been busy. :) Missed y'all.

Sleep was interrupted by a gentle overnight rainstorm. The thunder was pleasantly distant, a rough hum, and the rain on the roof pattered lightly, masking the ever present buzz of appliances and air conditioning. The night’s second act flashed by with an imagined caress here, a sigh there. Phantom warmth curled by his side.

Erik woke so contented that he didn’t even curse himself for forgetting to close the curtains. 

Early start in hand, he cradled his face gently against the bright window and rolled upright. It was going to be a hot day. The rain would make it sticky. On any other day, he’d stay in and spread himself over the keys but…

He rolled out of bed, straightened his soft pajamas back into place, and walked down the hall to his desk. With a tap, the computer screen brightened, reporting the contents of the hard drive still amicably whirring away as though it had never smashed into the parking lot of the architecture firm he used to work at. 

Erik sat heavily, scrolling through the payload of spreadsheets, work orders, inspections and memos. Copied emails, blind copied emails, and forgotten chains stuck in other emails. Careful to not alter anything, he closed each file and ejected the thing, tracing his tough musician’s fingers over the shiny side just to watch the smears disappear.

How many lives was one man granted? 

Erik hoped three. Three was a nice number; it had lots of mythology built in. Storytelling potential, with a nice ending.. The best stories have beginnings, middles, and ends. A strong foundation leading to a peak. A happy ending would be nice. He could really use a happy ending. 

He rubbed at an eye and padded to the kitchen for coffee. He really hoped against four. If three was a good story, four was a square, a box. 

A room with walls. Prison? And if not, then certainly no music school. No Nadir. No Christine.

He really hoped he would just get the three. He would just be a man, not a list of symptoms and pathology. Maybe not normal, but ordinary. Plenty of terrible things were ordinary, and maybe his could fade along with the rest.

When the coffee was dripping down the carafe, Erik made up his mind. He took his phone from the counter and tapped it awake. He had to be certain about this fourth life before he could truly live the third. Then he looked at the counter.

Christine had hardly taking up any space there because she’d taken up all of his. Twisting the mask sideways had let her see the lower half of his face. It was a shame she still had the shoulder, arm, side, back, and his god forsaken head left to see. She’d seen his lower arm, so she knew what was coming. Too smart not to.

And that was why he had to do this.

His phone screen had dimmed, and Erik gave it a light swipe and opened his contacts.

…

Hours later, though still just after noon, Erik stretched his arms out over the piano. He was depleted and wrung out, but in that loose way that leaves you floating. Exhausted and three inches taller, music drifting lightly from the soundboard, all flutters and sweetness.

His phone rang. Nadir.

“I hope I did not wake you. I thought you might have slept badly, but when I called earlier you did not answer.”

Erik put the call on speakerphone as he strummed the keys, drawing out their sustains like bells. “I’m fine. Was up early actually. We still on for Sunday?” He interlocked and suddenly two hands sounded like four.

“If you’re up for it.”

“Absolutely.” Erik said, punctuating his words with a few notes.

“Wonderful! What are you making? I can bring something to go with it.”

His hands paused on the keys. “Prime rib. I feel like celebrating.”

“Oh?” Nadir’s voice was calculated to be cool. “Can I know yet or are you saving news?”

“I called my lawyer.”

Silence. A breath. “Why?”

Why indeed. He’d spent a few years asking the same on those occasions when he remembered the drawer with his medical records and an unreliable stapler. A place he’d relegated misfit things. The hard drive was no longer in his possession and the stapler was in the trash.

“I’m re-opening the investigation.” The line crackled. Or perhaps the phone had been gripped too tight. “Nadir, I found something. Something new.”

“It’s been more than ten years,” he said, his voice as brittle as chipped crystal and just as sharp. “Ten years and more than three investigations and all of our lawsuits. This is not new.”

Erik leaned into the music, unable to cope without it. “I copied everything related to my project when I went back. The DA didn’t have what’s on this hard drive. There’s something new in there and I need to figure it out. Even if it ends everything.”

There was only the huff of labored breathing now. Uneven and coarse, caught between rough emotions that still abraded them both. It just showed on Erik more.

A breath of intent. “What… what have you done? Erik! What have you done?”

Floating glissandos, butterflies taking wing to hang in the breeze. “My lawyer is arranging a handover with the DA for all the files and information I copied.” Erik completed the song, such as it was. It was more a sensation, a breath decorated by emotion.

“I didn’t want to do this again. I'm done. I have _moved_ on, Erik.”

“It’s not about money,” Erik said flatly.

“Then what? Why?”

The life he had, and the life he could have very soon, depended on these things. Erik tapped a haunting four note sequence. A resolved measure, if uncertain. The air was uncomfortably close, pressing in on his chest, squeezing him and closing this throat over the words. Somehow, it was the second time he played the measure, more softly now, that urged them out. 

“I need to be certain that I didn't miss anything,” Erik said in a whisper. He heard the inhale and hurried to continue, clutching the lacquered top of the piano. “And I don’t care how many investigations say otherwise, if they didn’t have all this, the business memos, spreadsheets, all these emails and charts and scanned notes, then the conclusions are incomplete. I’m giving them everything because _it matters to me_.” 

With a deep breath, he let his shoulders go slack, and his hand splattered across the keys, discordant and abrupt. 

“I’m cutting those ties, Nadir. I want to soar.”

Nadir sighed. It was a lot to ask of him. It was a lot to even tell him, really, when he’d let loved things pass into history. “When you have dates, let me know. I’ll be there.”

Erik slumped. “Thank you.”

“That prime rib better be _perfect_.”

…

Saturday evening and Erik was applying the dry rub to the roast when his phone chirped. He barely made it in time to put the call on speaker with an uncontaminated knuckle.

“Have you seen the radar?” 

Christine. He nearly knocked the pan off the counter, then glanced up from his salt and pepper crusted hands toward the big windows in his living room. It seemed the distant storms from the night before had brought their big brother for another round.

“No, but I can see storms out there.” Big ugly ones. The kind that make you double check your battery supply and unplug the computer. “Where are they heading?”

“Right this way. They’ll be here in less than an hour.” He knew her voice well enough that he could hear the catch in it.

The next lesson wasn’t until next week. He’d planned to go slow. He’d planned to make the prime rib for Nadir.

“Where is your roommate?”

She swallowed loudly. Fear and nerves were tough to swallow. “She’s going to her boyfriend’s.”

Erik eyed the roast, judging the size. “She hasn’t left yet?” 

“No. Erik, I--”

The sky turned greenish. A jagged gash of lighting in the distance decided it. 

“Pack a bag. Have Gia drop you off.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to mess up your weekend. It’s Saturday and all.”

His laugh made it clear he had no plans. “I think I can clear my schedule."

She was quiet. Second thoughts? Or just packing. “Okay. I should be there in twenty minutes. Can I bring you anything?”

“No. I’ll make dinner.” Erik finished another layer of salt and pepper. It was always better if the dry rub could sit for a day, but needs must, right? 

“Don’t go to any trouble. I’m happy with leftovers.”

He rinsed his hands and slid the pan into the searing hot oven. His smirk would be audible. He just knew it. “Oh, I think we can do better than that.”

…

Low-slung clouds threatened violence overhead. Erik turned away from the windows and made one last pass through the house, ending in the bathroom. All toiletries were stocked and he had spares of anything she might need. Aside from that, he barely knew where to begin.

And that was the moment Erik realized something. He’d barely lived before now and was completely unprepared. So wrapped up in himself, even before the accident. And then the woman backstage, thinking he was just in costume… 

He'd thought she knew-- who he was, that he had a backstory and that the craftsmanship in his face wasn't for the stage but his life. She'd yanked him into a dark corner and come at him with everything she had, setting his skin dancing with laughter, then on fire with her body. 

He had still been inside her when she snatched the mask. 

He knew pain well enough, and humiliation wasn't his kink. Rather than risk that again, he'd walked away from that part of life. 

And now it was coming with an overnight bag. 

After making sure all the notes and papers he’d signed earlier were carefully stowed (he could think about it later), he flicked on the bathroom light and took a good look in the mirror. There was worse, he supposed, and given what Christine had seen, he might be less of a challenge. Erik swallowed hard and slid on the hairpiece. Time had not improved the burn scars, and the hair he had left was uneven and a mix of brown and premature gray. Trauma had washed him out. The grayscale decor in his home only seemed to confirm it.

A shiver shot through him as he recalled her old social media accounts. Maybe she did understand, but understanding was different from…

The oven timer chimed, diverting his train of thought. On his way to the kitchen, past the cool hues and straight lines, he paused, and imagined some color. Bright blue or a soft green? He turned off the oven and wandered back to the living room. Erik ran a hand along the back of the couch, then looked out of the window at the churning sky. 

The blinding flash and deafening crack were simultaneous, and the brief flickers then the silence that followed was so complete it could only mean one thing. 

When Erik’s watery vision adjusted to the sudden darkness, the dense clouds had pushed evening into night, and the storm was far from over. It was too late for a last minute change in plans so, groping through the house by the light of his phone, he went to a closet and tore open a box labeled 'For Emergencies'. 

…

The heavens opened one minute before the doorbell rang. Erik hurried over, heart ricocheting off his ribs, and opened the door.

Christine half ran in, windy and wild. “I barely made it here,” she said breathlessly as she shook rain from her skirt. The fancy car she'd arrived in was already out of sight. “I hope Gia doesn’t get soaked.”

Erik’s tongue lost its grip on language, for her ringlets were everywhere and nowhere she’d pinned them. She was a pixie, a fairy caught in a storm and blown off course. 

“I hope she packed enough,” he managed, and closed the door. "I'll get you a towel." 

“Thanks. I’m sure she didn’t, but I think that’s part of her… charm.” When he returned, Christine was holding a handful of dripping hair out of her face, eyes wide and staring into the living room. 

“Ah, the power went out a few minutes ago” Erik began, handing her the towel. “I’m kind of the last one on the grid,” he explained. “I’ve learned to plan ahead for emergencies.”

Planning ahead meant stocking up on candles, both flame-lit and LED, and a variety of solar and battery powered lanterns. Emergencies meant the first overnight guest in a decade was coming in a severe thunderstorm.

Christine walked into the main room, her gaze darting around the variety of inflatable lanterns, flickering flames of candles, a variety of LED pillar candles, and hanging paper globes, all different colors as they slowly cycled through the entire rainbow. As she turned, brushing strands from her eyes, she tapped a playful yellow paper light to make it swing. He’d stood on a chair and duct taped it to a beam overhead.

“Are you some kind of prepper?”

He laughed a little, and joined her. “Ah, no. I just never keep track of them.”

She twirled a clutch of loose curls spun together and tucked them under a pin. “Aren’t you worried you’ll run out? The storm could last all night and then what? The power’s already out at my place.” 

“There’s another box twice as big.” He pointed over her shoulder. In the window he could see their reflections, overlapping profiles leaning towards each other. It looked like the beginning of something.

“A box. In the closet. Over there.”

The air between them crackled and the lightning cast sharp shadows in the room. The lights chased them back out again.

She didn’t move away. “Good. I’d hate to get caught in the dark.” Her nose twitched, sniffing. “What is _that_?” she said, and looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen.

It broke the mood, but it was too intense. Too fast. “Not leftovers. Wine?” He poured her a generous glass and set it on a counter alongside LED pillars with three flickering, fake wicks. “There’s another half hour on dinner.” He smiled sheepishly. “The power went out before I --.”

His phone started ringing, cutting him off. Then it started blaring with urgent, concerned text messages. It was Nadir. 

“Sorry,” Erik said. 

Christine waved for him to answer once it rang again.

“Hello? Nadir?”

“Erik! Are you okay?” Nadir was half shouting over the wind and rain. “I saw your area had a power outage.”

“Yes, the power’s out. I’m fine.” Christine sipped her wine and smiled.

“Do you need a place to stay? Cara and I would be happy to have you here tonight.”

“No, I’m fine. Plenty of emergency lights.”

“But how will you eat?”

“I just made dinner and it’s just finishing in the oven.”

“Okay, if not- - wait, _finishing_? There’s only one thing you finish in the oven.”

“I made the prime rib.” Christine’s mouth dropped open and she glanced towards the oven.

“You’re eating tomorrow’s dinner?”

At Christine’s horrified look, Erik hurried to de escalate the situation. “There’s more than one left in the world, you know. And, uh, plans came up at the last minute.”

“You have plans? With no power?”

“Well, yes,” Erik said. He locked eyes with her as she sipped her wine. It stained her lips a deep, lush pink. 

Nadir chuckled. "My God, Erik, this day." Silence. “Wait, is she there now?”

She started laughing. 

“I assume you can hear that?” Erik said, and held up the phone to Christine. “Nadir, say hello to Christine. Christine, say goodbye to my old friend Nadir.”

Nadir spoke fast. “Delighted, Christine! Erik speaks very highly of you and I hope we can meet soon! And Erik, make sure you call me soon, I want to hear--”

“Goodbye, Nadir. Best to Cara.” Erik hung up and pushed a palm against his forehead. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. It’s good that he cares about you.” She tipped her wine back and set the empty glass on the counter. “So, how long does a prime rib need to rest?”

He glanced down at his watch. “Well, I shut off the oven half an hour ago so, another half hour?”

“Will you play until it’s ready?” Christine smiled up at him. “You don’t need power to play a piano.”

He felt warm under the mask. “No, but you do need light.” They each took an armful of LED lights to the piano. Though his living room grand was covered in clearance price tea lights and pillars, their glowing rings warmed the lacquer and converged on the keys like priceless chandeliers. 

Erik breathed in the scene. Themes on dawn and morning contrasted with the threatening flashes and heaving clouds beyond. Bright twinkles, like her eyes in the false candlelight, gave way to half recalled love songs. As Christine traced the curving edge of the piano, it fused together into a refrain of yearning and thunder. Measures of poetry curled around impressions of sighs, songs she had sung.

She paused thoughtfully. “Beautiful. Yours?”

“Sort of,” he said, and closed his eyes, rocking with the music rolling off him. He didn’t know how to tell her it was hers as much as his. You don’t easily separate the muse from the music. 

Her footsteps stopped near the bench and Erik opened his eyes. Hard angles here and there were brought out by a flash of lightning and chased back into softness by the low light of the lanterns and lights. His hands fluttered over the keys, wishing there was an easy way forward. As free and easy as her voice, but that was an illusion, wasn’t it? He knew how hard she worked for every note. The hours of preparation every aria required. The willingness to open herself for every song.

And yet, he wore a mask.

A free voice was a beautiful voice. 

“Christine?” Logic can stretch, extending out like a sustained note like her beautiful, free voice.

“Yes, Erik?”

He swallowed, and the music grew very soft as his hands began to tremble. Free was beautiful.

“Do you still--” his voice caught, and his fingers played an endless bridge. “Still want an accompaniment?” 

The piano was drowned out by a roll of thunder that shook through him. Single notes replaced music as Christine drew near. A touch at his shoulder, light and tentative. 

“No one’s coming tonight.” Her eyes said they could pick up where they left off. Sustain. Extend the logic. 

“I want to. But,” he raised his chin and looked up. The lights illuminated her hair into glistening spirals, dark eyes reflecting both the lights and flashes from outside. 

_Understand_ , he willed. His hands failed at the keys and heat welled in his face. Hot beneath the unbearable mask. When had it grown so heavy? Erik squeezed his eyes closed and his hands fell to his lap. 

“Help me,” he whimpered. “Take it, please. I can’t-- can’t--” He kept his chin raised, offering the mask up to her like a sacrifice, desperate to feel the cool air on his face but unable to command himself to do it.

He felt her lips instead. The sensation thundered through him and his hands turned to claws, unsure of what to touch and hold. Her lips caught the tremors in his, suckling them away. trembling ease under her touch.

“Play, Erik,” she said. She slipped behind him and set her hands on his shoulders. “Just breathe and play.” 

Music returned, and it was all Christine. Her song. The little air she hummed and sang when she thought no one was around. Erik wove it like a tapestry with texture and then added what he’d been writing.

“Oh god, this music,” she sighed and hugged his back, tucking close as he played. “It’s so beautiful.” 

“For you. It’s always for you.” Time stretched, sustaining the notes. Erik had often wondered how this would happen. The first time had been grim. He could still hear the way her screech had cut the dusty backstage air and sent him scrambling for his mask and pants. 

Christine’s touch along his jaw, tracing his lips with a shivery trail. He sighed and kissed her fingertips. He’d often wondered if this would ever happen, morbidly fascinated by the potential for violation, but this… Was anything so precious as this? 

“Oh, Christine,” he breathed, hands still, yielding to the rain and thunder.

At that, he felt her hands by his neck, creeping up towards the edge of the mask, curling under the edge. The delicate wire loosened and the mask’s tiny anchor was gone, held in place nothing but by gravity.

And then he was weightless. 

When she took his hand, he followed, leaving the piano, walls, and the raging sky beyond to draw their own conclusions. He took one little rainbow light and followed her to where she’d left her bag, followed her to his own room, and let her tug him to the bed, kneeling on the fluffy duvet. As the dim light turned hazy orange, she took the hairpiece and it was only her quick inhale that said she’d not just looked but _seen_.

“Christine?” he asked the tinted silence. “Christine, I know it’s hard. I understand if you need some time.”

She shook her head and tugged his shirt. “I’m tired of time.” She pulled his shirt free and held the loose ends as she scooted closer. Closer, until she was tight against him, straddling a thigh with her skirt puddling over his leg.

The light was yellow when his shirt came off, and the base of his spine grew loose as she traced the hypersensitive ridge just where the scars began on his arm and shoulder. Highlight-bright edges and contours filled his vision until his eyes slipped closed for hot, sliding kiss.

The light was green when her skirt dropped to the floor, and she stretched her legs out next to him, as restless as he was. Kisses came easier, wetter. A cord in her neck stood out when he slid his tongue out to taste it. The storm waited for her loud intake of breath before the winds and thunder shook the windows.

A graze at his temple flowed to his scalp and settled in the patchy hair. Erik could not recall the last time he’d been held, just _held_. Not examined, assessed, or diagnosed, but caressed; pressed. He wanted her everywhere, around him and in his eyes, lungs, ears and mouth. 

He knew passion. It was the pulse that drove him, and kept him up late at night. Pain, too, so much and for so many years. Though it had faded, the echoes were loud and had drowned out the joys of his younger years. Cheap as they were. 

Christine’s lips, her sighs and touch, at his neck, shoulders, trailing down his sides and into the tiny voids by his hipbones. Pleasure streaked through limbs that had forgotten how to feel it. Had given up on it but roared to life with a taste, starving.

He was starved and she was a feast. 

Hail struck the roof in a calamity when he sucked her fingers, and car alarms began blaring when she pressed his hand between her legs. Liquid, smooth and overripe. Sweet and hot on his tongue and thick on his chin. 

“Stop, stop, oh my god, Erik,” 

He looked up, dazed and breathless, and had only a moment before she pulled him up and took his breath away completely. Christine arched and kissed the careless distractions into the background and scorched the ghosts until they were silent, then she reached down. 

Erik was already slick, had nestled against her, rocking in pale mimicry. Tremors raced under his skin, hot shivers of need and anticipation. They were too old for games. He didn’t need to watch-- he only needed to feel. 

Sultry purple light illuminated the beads of sweat on her forehead when he grazed her, a shallow dip that made him gasp. Baritone and soprano rumblings, a formless duet of adoration, decorated by turns with greed and generosity until voices froze, caught in decadent silence.

Remaining places that had been neglected were petted as they cooled, the room lit in aqua and cool white until hunger drove them out. Mismatched and half clothed, they fed each other bites of prime rib directly from the roast until the counters got involved. Then they further scandalized the sleek lines and grayscale, knocking a canvas off the wall in the hallway in their rush back to the bedroom.

…

Clicks and hums nudged at sleep, and Erik opened one eye, unsure of reality around him. The power was on, but he recalled the strike and the darkness that followed. He wasn’t looking forward to the downed limbs and roof damage that came with a storm like that. He hadn’t been out in it but he was tender. Bruised almost… 

Sore? A bottomless well of luscious images and fragments raced and rallied for his attention but that wasn’t… _couldn’t_ … 

Rainbows of color painted his thoughts and brought a hot rush to his face. 

“Power’s back on,” Christine said, rolling closer. Her arm snaked under his and stroked his chest, leaving little spasms in the wake of her touch. “Shame we didn’t get to break into the other box. I was dying to see what the other lights were like.”

Erik let her roll him to his back and swallowed. Before his mind could tread too far down dark paths, Christine pulled herself closer and lazily threw a leg over him. Prime rib for breakfast was the second most decadent thing he could imagine enjoying that morning and it was frankly forgettable in comparison.

…

Dinner was Thai carry out and Erik barely had time to wipe down the counters before Nadir set the bag down.

“You ate an entire prime rib,” Nadir accused flatly.

“I… yes,” Erik said as he got down plates and straightened his damp collar. “The power was out. I couldn’t make sides.”

Nadir fished containers out of the bag. At least he had his favorite curry. He adored a good Massaman. “You said you’d get another.”

Erik got out glasses and silverware. “She only left an hour ago. I didn’t have time.”

As he plated their meals, Nadir watched Erik with eyes made keen from decades of observation. He sometimes assured people he was ‘off the clock’ when they half-jokingly worried about diagnoses at cocktail parties and holidays, but that wasn’t true. Wasn’t even possible, really. Nadir could effortlessly pick out emerging neuropathy cases, ticks and Tourette’s, visual processing deficits, motor defects, and all those little nags and snags of life that people were barely even aware of themselves. And place them in context. 

Nadir chuckled. Maybe he was like Sherlock Holmes after all.

“What’s so funny?” Erik asked as he sat with a wince. 

“Oh nothing. I’m glad you at least had time to shower, my friend.”


	7. In Threes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How many lives does a man get to live?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I officially declare that Carlotta's pet name for Piangi is 'polpetto', which means 'little potato'.
> 
> This was a hard chapter to write. I hope it came out okay.

The end of the summer camps meant starting the mad scramble to prepare for after school programs, incoming preschoolers, and adult classes. Preparations included a top to bottom cleaning, completely rearranging nearly every room, packing up music, costumes, and equipment and getting out other music, costumes, and equipment. Only the staff remaining to teach at the preschool were allowed a break, given that they were about to spend hours a day coordinating piles of three-to-five year olds. The rest of the staff was in all-hands-on-deck mode to be ready for the beginning of the regular school year. 

Except for Erik. Most of his work was curriculum and program design and, besides that, his rooms were currently exposed to the studs in places and hidden behind heavy plastic sheets. The first week had begun in a dusty tribute to the longevity of industrial carpet, and then the plastic had gone up. Apparently, the old acoustic foam was a nastier foe than anticipated. 

Dr. Allen closed his notes from the contractor and carefully arranged his desk accessories to be at right angles. “Erik, I’m sorry to say this, but it looks like it might take a few extra weeks but they assure me that your rooms will be ready in time to start the full rehearsals for your Christmas program.” He avoided eye contact and nervously tapped papers into tidy stacks and fussed with the mismatched edges. “If need be, I’m sure we can coordinate with the high school. I’m on good terms with the fine arts director there and they’ve got a nice theater. Or even the university if you prefer. I’m very sorry for all the inconvenience.”

Erik smiled. “Thanks for letting me know. All that sounds good. Whichever plan comes together faster is fine by me.”

Allen glanced up and tilted his head. “Well, thank you for your flexibility. I swear, if I’d known how difficult this renovation was going to be I would never have insisted on it.”

“It’ll be a great space when it’s done. In the meantime, I can do some of the arranging and composing work from home, if that’s alright by you?” Erik gestured loosely towards the mask. “The dust, you know.”

“Of course, of course. Take all the time you need, just keep me up to date.”

“You got it, Dr. A.”

...

The smell of onion gravy lingered in Reyer’s recital room and Erik quashed the sudden urge to strip off his mask and bleach the place. Instead, he found the sticky cardboard box of salisbury steak in the trash can and tossed the lot into the hallway. 

Singers may be resilient, but there was no need to test them. Though, to be fair, Piangi could probably sing in a hurricane if asked, and would do it well.

“Maestro! How is this day?”

Erik pulled out a folder and set music on the piano. “Allen says the renovations are going past the expected date, but it’ll be okay. Sorry about the smell.”

Piangi waved a dismissal. “I work with the boys choir. This is nothing.” He clapped his hands together and flipped open his folder. “So, we work, yes?”

“Sure. Oh, did you have any input on the Christmas program? I hear you and Carlotta usually perform a duet and if you have a piece picked out, I’m happy to accommodate.”

Piangi had a few pieces to offer, and the Christmas program was off to a good start.

...

Later, after a light day of sight reading through possible audition pieces, Erik ran restless fingers over Christine’s hair and breathed before turning his attention back to his work. He could not recall when he’d last felt so calm. 

“How many did you call?” he asked. His living room was finally dimming after an afternoon at home. They’d come directly from the school and it was nice to be on his own couch at home and not be tired. It felt… promising.

“Four. I might pass on the symphony choir for now for the flexibility. You know, stick with the smaller ones.”

Erik kissed behind her ear. “Do they provide accompaniment?”

“All but one, though not as good as you,” she said with a little smile. “I was going to ask--”

“Of course,” he smiled as Christine leaned to look at his work, snuggling up at his side. There was no padding to be found there, but he could certainly hold her up, and it gave him access to that neck of hers. Before he could make use of it, she turned and peered at the pages, stretching. 

“What’s this? Must be holiday music. I see a lot of major keys,” she teased, and kissed his cheek.

“Gotta plan ahead.”

“What, you don’t just default to Handel and call it a day?”

Erik grimaced. “We might do the chorus, but I like to think the world has more to offer.” He flipped through his notes and leaned back. “I think we should start traditional and then branch out. I can modify the Messiah for the school, but what about the whole idea of community? Relevance?” 

She leaned her face on his shoulder. “I like that. Most programs use the same set every year, and it just happens to be the same as every other school.”

“I can’t wander too far from the standards. We can do a sing a long, but I want to let the staff have a chance to do something besides just lead their classes, too.” 

“You’re brilliant,” Christine said as she raised a leg to stretch. “You’re going to arrange something completely amazing and everyone will love it.”

Erik completely missed the compliments and stared. “What are you doing?” 

“I drilled today with Madame Giry. Just a little tight.”

He may be a little slow at this, but he wasn’t going to let an opportunity pass him by. Erik set his notes to the side and tried to look casual and relaxed. He probably managed ‘not panicking’.

“Do you think maybe I could help you loosen up?”

“Stretches?” she said brightly, and hopped up from the couch. “That would be great.”

“I, uh… okay.” Erik was about to haul himself up when Christine laughed and knelt close for a kiss.

“You’re a genius but you’re also a big dummy,” she said against his lips. She had her hands on his thighs, scratching against the weave of his trousers. The feeling skittered upwards. 

“Huge dummy,” he agreed. It was hard not to agree when she made such a compelling argument.

The softening light outside was turning pink. The dark green trees deepened and set a stark horizon, carved out by summer-baked leaves. The leaves crackled the sunset into orange and pink, and would soon serve to blend the horizon like a watercolor, blurring the edges of reality. Reality was hard drives, deadlines, dance recitals and depositions. It was rehab and recovery. It was the past and maybe the future but not the now. Now was the way her hands tugged him down the hall and kissed him near the mask’s edge.

Christine was rosy and sweet. She softened edges.

“Take it off?” Reality was under a mask and if Christine wanted it, it was hers. If she pushed his shirt off and pressed her hot mouth down his neck, drenching his thirsty scars with sensation and scratched his chest with her fingernails, he would arch into it and beg for more.

The tremors only stopped when she was in his hands, when he was in hers. Strength had rounded curves and sleek angles that flexed as she wrapped parts of herself around him like a vine-- strong enough to hold him up, flexible enough to bend.

Christine slung her shirt away and pulled him close. The bed protested for a moment as they tumbled down. More clothes followed and, in the cool breeze from the fan, her skin shivered and rippled against Erik with a delicious chill.

There was just this. She’d said that once. _Just this._ There was only the filtered light and her moans in his ears and the feel of her tender breasts in his mouth. The way she twitched and shook when he slid his fingers just so. He’d been happy to let her ride him, happy to let her take control of sensations he was distantly familiar with but had shelved for too long.

But now. Now he wanted to see it, watch her climax before she went boneless under him. Was that wrong? Was he was acting like the man he was before?

Erik looked up at her undulating horizons. No. There was only this. It wasn’t wrong because he only wanted her. A cry, trilling and musical, filled the room when he dropped his mouth to her and God help him, it was just this. She gripped his head and pulled him up, directing him into her plush sex. He propped her lovely legs on his shoulders as he reared up and felt the shock of her down to his bones. 

“Oh my god, Erik, yeah,” she whimpered, and clutched at his hand, pushing it between her legs once again. 

This needed to last, so he tried to go slow, keeping his attention on the rhythm she set and the deep blush spreading over her. It worked well enough until her breath caught, shattering all thoughts into a kaleidoscope. Grace notes broke into fractals and shaking breaths and Erik shuddered as every nerve crackled with life. 

Just this. Just _this._ Only ever this and this life, the third life _please_ god let him have this. Not a distraction, not a way to end an otherwise dull evening but a beautiful way to spend his life. 

Erik dropped her legs, unable to hold them any longer, and fell at her side, hauling the fluffy duvet up, but abandoning it in favor of her arms.

“I’m sorry, Christine,” he muttered.

“Oh my god, what for?” she panted as she wrapped her limbs around him. He’d never been so happy to be caught.

“I think you loosened _me_ up.”

She laughed and smoothed a hand over his flank. “You big dummy.”

“Huge dummy.” When she slapped his thigh lightly, he suckled her lip and pulled her tighter. She’d need extra rest before her next session with Madame Giry if he had anything to do with it.

…

Erik took to eating oranges before practice. He paced the room slowly as he peeled them, pulling the peel off in bits so the oil could mist out and freshen the room as he walked. By the time Piangi showed up, he was just finishing the last slices and went to rinse his hands.

“Very nice Maestro. Smells better than zap food.”

“And a riser full of sweaty teens.”

“Without saying, Maestro.”

They began with scales and drills. Umbaldo was a professional and went through his proper warm ups without complaint. With his and Carlotta’s side gigs at local museums and Italian restaurants, it was a good chance to check for strains.

“How was the Saturday show?” Erik asked after Umbaldo took a break for water. He heard a catch and some threadiness he didn't like. 

“Good, good. Carlotta sang Casta Diva and was a radiant Norma. I sang Nessun Dorma again.”

Erik chuckled over his coffee. “You’d think people would have imagination but alas.”

“People and people and they like what they like. If an ordinary man likes pretty arias, who am I to argue, eh?”

A knock interrupted their chat and Erik raised an irritated eyebrow at the door. Before he could reach the handle, it opened a few inches and Christine popped her head in.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, but Carlotta said to bring you this?” She handed a folder to Piangi. “I bet it’s for the Christmas concert! Oh, hey Erik.”

He swallowed and spoke at the same moment so he sounded a little like he was choking before trying again.

“Hi Christine. How are you?”

“Great, thanks. Madame Giry is annoyed though.”

“Oh?” Erik unbuttoned his cuffs and prepared to look over Piangi’s music. “Why is that?”

“Something about not having recovered from my last drills quickly enough, but what can you do?”

Erik’s voice caught and he nearly tripped. The little minx was pranking _him_. Him. Oh, he was going to get her. 

“Well, I know it’s hard, but you should try to take it easy. You never know when you might need a little extra flexibility.” He was pleased when her mouth fell open. “Are we still on for Friday?”

“Yep,” she said. She recovered fast, he had to admit. “See you then, Erik.”

Piangi blew a kiss. “Give that to mio amore!”

Christine shook her head. “Absolutely not. But I will say you said thank you.” She spun on a toe and leaned in a graceful arc. “See you Friday… Dr. B.”

She was gone before he could think of a response. Erik was stuck conceding the round and he couldn’t have been happier. 

When Piangi chuckled deep in his chest, Erik realized he’d been smiling at the door. 

“I don’t recall the Christmas concert being discussed at a staff meeting, Maestro. Are you struck by the thunderbolt?” He laughed and the vibration bounced a friendly percussion off Erik’s bones. 

Erik rushed for excuses. “Well, I--”

“Ah, she is lovely, with a voice to match. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Piangi tapped his ear. “I have an ear too, yes?” He sighed wistfully. “Dio sopra, I know what it is to be bewitched by a woman’s voice… Mamma mia Maestro, my little Carlotta once sang the house down in Genoa--”

Piangi’s story spanned more than fifteen years and was broken by descriptions of Carlotta’s virtues, his favorite works that she sang, and frequent interjections and exclamations to heavenly bodies, various venerable locations, and the sainted heart of his own mother. An understudy tenor had fallen for the rising ingenue, was cast aside for folly, and eventually achieved the love of his life. They’d snuck away to Boston after eloping and, a few years later, had settled here to help anchor a struggling music school. 

It was a story fit for an opera, born in an opera. It took half an hour. It was just as well; Erik was going to suggest cutting the session short due to the strain in Piangi’s voice. 

Umbaldo Piangi was a fool in love, and saw only a gorgeous, rising star with a silver bell in her throat. He cared nothing for the rest. Ordinary people who had done extraordinary things for love and a chance at a life together. He finished his story and glanced at his watch.

“Apologies! I must get back to my diva! She will never forgive her _polpetto_ if he is not on time, no?”

“Vocal rest, Umbaldo. Tell Carlotta to go easy, too. You need to recover after bringing down the house on the weekends.”

Piangi winked. “Rest like your dancer, yes?” His hearty laugh echoed through the door as he left.

Erik sat in stunned silence. He stared at the door and hung on to the last giggle and sigh from the hallway. Something monumental had just happened and he needed a moment to process it. Piangi had shared something very personal with such joy that it was hard not to imagine Carlotta as something other than the fussing, demanding woman he knew. She was a woman who was adored, and by Piangi, a colleague and… friend. 

Piangi was in love-- was _still_ in love-- with a woman he’d fallen for years ago. How wonderful it must be to look at someone and see only the very best of them.

That Christine was single meant there were a lot of blind fools out there.

Erik imagined where the hard drive was, and touched the curving edge of the mask. The world may see him one way now. It may see him differently soon. Nadir and Chistine may see something new soon, too. 

He was suddenly a bit ill, and blamed it on the rapidly returning smell of old grease and indeterminately spiced meat.

…

Before dinner, Nadir insisted on taking a look at Erik’s face. Specifically, his mouth.

“You know you should be careful with acidic foods,” he said, probing a slightly raw spot on Erik’s delicate lip. “Are you eating pineapple in big chunks? At least cut it up so it doesn’t get on your skin, yes?”

Erik eased the mask back into place. “It’s just oranges.”

Nadir waved a hand as he sipped his tea and returned to the chessboard. “Acid. How many?”

“At least two a day.”

“Not terrible. Just wipe your face with tap water afterwards and this will clear in a week or so. Take care, my friend,” he teased. “Your lady deserves kissing and this could severely set you back if you don’t, eh?” Nadir chuckled and began setting up the board. The color that flushed Erik’s face told Nadir everything he needed to know. 

It took Erik a moment to continue stirring some roasted broccoli. “Very funny.”

“Why so much citrus? I don’t recall that being a big part of your diet before.”

“Reyer and his microwavable burritos.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Reyer and his entire practice room reek of frozen dinners. I peel the oranges in his room before I give my lessons so it doesn’t stink and it would be a waste to not eat the oranges.”

“Maybe you should ask Christine to join you. You get the nice smell, less acid, and a snack with your muse.” At Erik’s silence, Nadir laughed again and left the chessboard. “I can read music, Erik,” he said, gesturing to the papers by the piano. “Don’t think I can’t tell a love song when I see it.” 

Erik closed the oven and set the timer for another ten minutes, then perched on a stool. Years of experience told Nadir that this uneasy stillness signaled a change in topic, and Nadir readied himself. It was a challenge to keep pace with Erik’s stream of consciousness; it required patience and preparation. 

“My lawyer says the case has been elevated. They turned over the entire hard drive and it’s in the hands of the government now.”

Nadir leaned on the counter and wrapped his hands around his teacup. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? If what you think is in there, there may be a very serious set of charges coming.”

“Yes, exactly,” Erik mumbled, then slashed open a loaf of bread. He slapped butter onto it and spread it roughly in silence. Nadir imagined a hoard of sharp eyed, hoodie wearing techs digging through files. Amusing thought, that. It would be terrible to peek into other people’s minds through their file organization. 

Erik swirled a dash of seasoning onto the bread. As he was pushing it into the butter, the knife paused mid-stroke. “How many lives does a man get to live, Nadir?”

Nadir lifted his gaze from the counter. “Wrong religion,” he joked, acutely aware that Erik was not so dense. It never hurt to get people to hear their own words, though. “I’m sure I can find you some information.” 

“No, not like that.” Erik turned away and watched the oven timer. “Maybe I meant… movements. Phases. Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

“Ah,” Nadir sighed, relieved. He’d always wondered if this was the real reason Erik had not progressed further. Erik had overseen nearly everything. Should have known everything. It was the ‘should’ that he tripped over every time. It was a sad thing, to see your friend locked in a strange loop of ego and resentment. In order to move forward, to get unstuck, you have to have something, a reason, to want to move. Heavens above, Nadir could not wait to meet Christine.

Nadir gathered his thoughts from the swirl of tea leaves. “My friend, some say a man is measured and judged after his death, and only a life of love and good deeds can cancel the weight of his sins.” 

“Is that what you believe?”

“It is what I have come to believe.” The years since that day had taught him lessons he’d no choice but to learn. Nadir had pushed through his own grief and reclaimed a life-- different, but his own. “You may have been a shit once, but I think your sins are not as great as you may think, and you have life yet to fill with goodness.”

The timer went off, ignored.

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do, and I am never wrong about these things.”

…

It was a strange day by any measure.

It started with coffee and Paganini before Erik opened his laptop to make the final selections for the school’s holiday concerts. By the time he was halfway through a particularly wild recording of the Caprices, he was flipping through the folder from Umbaldo and Carlotta. Three sips into his third cup of coffee, he was struck by an idea and began furiously scribbling notes to the inventive strains of baroque. The coffee was cold when he started making phone calls.

First, he left messages with the dean of the school of music and his favorite faculty members at the university. Then the heads of two choruses and the artistic director of a modern opera corp. Then the young man who he’d given his six stringed violin to, and finally Dr. Allen. The sun was beating down by the time he finished his calls, and he sat back on his couch to await the callbacks. 

It was definitely time for Led Zeppelin.

The first callback was nearly lost to the hot winds and pulsing bass of Kashmir. The dean was in. He thought it was ambitious, but he was in, which meant the other professors were in. The next call was the ludicrous artistic director, but he was just crazy enough to agree. Another hour passed and he had a call from one of the chorale leaders. 

She’d called him ‘cheeky’. More the fool her; he barely had any. 

If Erik was lucky, he might have as much as a fifty-strong choir and a full orchestra, and that was before the lead vocals were set. He’d led bigger projects, but that was for his doctorate and had taken more than a year to assemble. This was going to be thrown together in less than four months, and on top of everyone's other holiday engagements. It would be cobbled together, mismatched in places, and probably profoundly out of balance, but it would do exactly what a school that belonged to the community should do.

It was time for something more ridiculous. Kiss. Maybe Slade. There was a certain appeal to a band that was exuberantly loud and had the guts to pair electric guitars with violins like a derivative bagpipe. Erik indulged in music somehow equal parts inspired and stupid until his phone rang once again.

“Dr. Brodeur?”

Erik cut the music and snapped to attention. “Yes. What have you heard?”

“The government ordered a full investigation. My assistant has already sent you and Dr. Khan some dates. We’ll meet to go over details and arrange to prepare any statements.”

A chill swept the fun right out of the room and left Erik deflated as his phone cheerily announced delivery of the calendar attachments.

“Got it. Thanks, I’ll be in touch.”

“Take care, Dr. Brodeur. We’re all pulling for you.”

He certainly hoped so. They’d been on retainer for seven years. “Thanks. See you soon.”

Erik ended the call and pulled up the calendar. The Christmas concert was suddenly too far away. There was a lifetime’s worth of dates filled before the concert. Time would tight. He’d have less time for dinners with Nadir and his weekends would be full of rehearsals and…

Christine. He had to tell her now. You didn’t just start spending time in meetings with lawyers and in court without telling your… what? Friend? Nadir and Piangi were his friends. Partner? His lawyers were partners. Girlfriend felt wrong. Muse was probably insulting.

_Lover._

His breath caught. Archaic, yes, but Erik felt he was entitled to a little pomp. He’d climbed from hell, emerged from the flames maimed and half demented, learned to channel his brains into the geometry of music, and _taken a lover._

Though, if history was to be trusted, Paganini’s face was actually rotting off and Chopin was a consumptive drama queen and they both managed to just die of other illnesses before the syphilis managed to drive them mad. If anything, Erik was probably far behind the power curve.

The sound of his phone hitting the floor jolted Erik from his navelgazing and brought his eyes back to the window. It was dusk. Evening. Christine was coming.

He had to tell her. Not just about the lawyers and court and calendar but Nadir, the accident and… and…

The deaths. That he might be responsible for.

It was one thing to be okay with his face. Could she be okay with the rest? How could anyone?

You can’t unsee negligence and death.

Erik picked up his phone and walked to the kitchen. On the way, he absently pressed ‘play’ to resume the music.

He hastily shut off the bluetooth pairing when jaunty, drum-driven party themes blasted from the speakers. The black brushstrokes of leaves against the bruised sky outside set the right tone, and Erik started dinner in uncharacteristic silence. 

By any measure, it was a strange day.

…

“Are you alright?”

Erik inhaled. “I’m fine. Of course.” His smile happened so quickly that he felt his skin pull. “How was your day?”

“Good. I think you’re going to like what I’ve done with the audition pieces. This is my last weekend to focus on them before I’m back in the classroom.” Christine set down her fork and took his hand. “I know we’re seeing more of each other in the evenings, but I miss seeing you at work for coffee. Even if I’m not thrilled about teaching preschool, I’m looking forward to that.”

She stood and cleared their plates and started the kettle for tea. He rose to follow and rolled up his cuffs to wash dishes. Before he could get the basin half filled, Christine hugged him from behind and Erik felt his joints soften.

“Would you like to play? I can take care of this,” she said.

“You shouldn’t. I’ve got it.”

She turned him gently and peered up. “Something’s bothering you and you think better when you play. Scoot. Talk when you’re ready.” Then she raised up for a kiss, then shooed him out of the kitchen like she owned the place.

Erik cracked his shoulder. If only.

The song began hesitantly. Measures tripped and stumbled into melody as if seeking their own origins. It built, incremental and without resolution like he was asking himself how to proceed and failed to provide answers. A lot of songs started like that, rooting themselves firmly in symphonic poetry. Like sonnets that laid out their observation and inquiry phases prettily.

But all proper sonnets grow. There’s conflict, and rightly so. Every good story has some, so Erik’s hands plucked out discordant notes, like the scraped emotions he’d felt this afternoon. When your good mood hits reality’s hard walls and you can’t get it back. Melodies laid out in the first movement were cut off and diverted, unsatisfied. When everything that brings you joy has to step back for the shitstorm and you can’t be sure you’ll get clean on the other side.

Then you find yourself the supplicant. When you drag yourself back home, wrecked and ruined, to ask if you’ll be let back in. A bit like the beginning, but rounder, fuller, experienced. Warmer, and yet it carried the ache of a minor key and unresolved questions. It pleaded and it begged, but it had hope. The only thing worth hanging onto and the only thing that made the pain worth it. It took so many forms and it wasn’t always enough but sometimes, sometimes, it was.

It was dark when he opened his eyes, holding the sustain as long as the note trembled over his skin. The lights were all off except one in the kitchen. It glowed against the darkness, and illuminated her outline, sitting quietly on the couch.

“How many lives do we have, Christine?”

It was strange, her silence. It was more strange than if she’d asked what he meant. 

“Do you want my answer, or the answer my therapist once gave me?”

“Yours,” he said immediately. “It’s the only one that matters.”

“Three,” she replied. “The one you’re given, the one you give away, and the one you keep.”

“And,” Erik said hesitantly, “which do you think you’re on?”

She stood, all swaying hair and soft dance clothes. “I didn’t tell you much about my father, did I?”

“He was a musician, got sick, and you took care of him until he died. Not much beyond that.”

“Tell me why you’re asking and I’ll tell you which life I think I’m on.”

Erik took a deep breath. She made it easy. Maybe that was why he loved her. 

He stilled. _He loved her._

“I wasn’t always this, you know. I was an architect before,” he waved a hand near his face. “My big project, the one that would put me on track to be a full partner, was completed. I’d worked more than a year to design and plan it, then another year of contracts and construction. The grand opening was a huge event and we had catering, flowers, and… music.” 

His voice pitched up. “A mother and son duet on cello and violin. I had them seated in this gorgeous grotto near a service wall. They were so good.” God, he hated thinking about it. The last strains in his ears. Even now, a decade later and uncountable testimonies. “I went out to see the lights. They were the last things installed and I hadn’t seen it after dark yet.” 

He paused. It was strange; he’d described the timeline, the events, and his injures, but he’d never described the music. Nadir had known, and it wasn’t something you discussed. Not even now.

“They started with Haydn. Beethoven. Then Glass. More. Something new, too. Something original. It was hypnotic. It bounced off the stones and sang up the stairs. They were so good, Christine. I wish… I wish I had listened more.” 

“Shhhh… it’s okay.”

“They were so good. Then Nadir went to get the flowers. Rook loved lillies and tulips but he’d run late and got the best available. I took my portfolio with me back to the grotto and... ”

There was a moment when he caught sight of Nadir’s son. He looked like an angel, a serene face showing nothing of the speed and work in his hands. Rook was the anchor of everything she ever played, and that night was no different. Her strings bellowed, sang, and cried. 

“What happened?”

Christine was next to him. He had not seen her approach, he was so lost in his own mind.. “What?”

“What happened?”

Erik hauled in breath. “Nadir went for the flowers, and I had my portfolio. There was a click, then another. I went to find the sound but--”

Christine waited. When it was clear the gap in his memory was not going to answer the obvious question, Erik went to the closet of his office and hauled out the portfolio case. One side was deceptively intact, and Christine looked at him curiously when he presented it to her.

“Is this the portfolio?”

He nodded. “Turn it around.”

Her eyes widened as she saw the cracked, blackened leather. Erik sat back at the piano and tapped out a few haunting notes. “The explosion ripped a hole in the building right by the grotto. I was just outside of the worst of it, though…”

“You held up the portfolio,” she whispered, tracing the deepest fissure in the seared leather.

“The flash fire curled around it and got my side. The other was protected by the air pocket.” The notes were familiar, like a dream, and more loosened from his hands as he repeated them. “I couldn’t get rid of it.”

“Wait,” Christine said, her hands shaking. “ The musicians. You said they were in the grotto.”

Erik shook himself and began playing her song. He needed Christine’s song to balance the sound of a crying cello in his mind.

“Erik?”

“They played as a favor. It was a school night and he had to be up the next day and she had at least two more shows that week. I could have hired someone but they were happy to do it.” Erik looked away from the keys. “Nadir’s wife and son were doing me a favor and he went to get their flowers that’s why he lived and they died.”

He cupped his forehead and felt the tension quiver in his muscles. “There’s an investigation. Soon, I hope to learn which life I get to keep,” Erik paused and turned, “because I just learned how to live again.”

The portfolio hit the floor, and flakes of blackened leather scattered away. Christine was close, warm and soft. She brushed her fingertips over his chin.

“The third, Erik. This is my third life, and I want to keep it.”

There was time to learn more about the first and second, but for now this was enough. She said it differently, but it was all the same and all he needed. It was everything he'd ever needed. 

The portfolio was abandoned to its slow disintegration in favor of tender embraces and the forgiving darkness of a warm bed that did not feel the first hints of autumn chill.


	8. Extremus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just keep happening. A study in extremes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a stupidly busy and exhausting month. That may explain why there's a thread of delirium in this chapter. :)

The night rested around them in sugared quiet. Calm unlike any he had felt in years filled his bones as Christine filled his arms. 

People say the oddest things, like ‘the sleep of the innocent’ or ‘sleep like a baby’. Erik had been around enough children to know they were snuffly, drooly, yowly things when they slept but, curiously, he had his first taste of what it meant. It wasn’t about being quiet or still-- it was about drifting and letting sleep find you, rather than seeking it out. It was waking up and knowing that all was well and simply falling asleep again.

It was knowing that, when morning came, the next day was going to be as good if not better than the last, and it was okay to sleep until then.

Wonderous. Or it would be if Christine was asleep, too.

The first time she just kissed his head and smoothed his hair. The second time she cuddled him and got up to use the restroom. 

The third time he stroked her chin and neck and finally asked, “What is it?''

…

She cried. At four in the morning, his beloved was sitting dead in the middle of his bed with him tucked around her like a strange shawl. Erik rocked Christine in his arms and sang softly into the benevolent night.

How strange that Christine felt she shouldn’t cry. Like she didn’t deserve to. She’d had to hold it together for her father’s friends, colleagues, and her own. They praised her father’s strength, his perseverance, and spoke softly of his weight loss and the ravages of chemotherapy. Her father had suffered, he was the one who was sick after all, but her struggle was invisible. They spoke of her father’s pain, not the long suffering daughter who’d coordinated hospice, given up her budding career, ruined herself financially, lost friends who couldn’t handle it and didn’t know how to help, and had to turn to the charity of near strangers just to finish what she’d started years before. 

She was his daughter, they’d said, and hadn’t she grown into such a pretty girl? 

“And I had to give him what he wanted, Erik. I wasn’t able to tell him no.”

“Shhhh, sweetheart, It’s fine. You carried out his wishes. It’s terrible but maybe that’s what love is sometimes,” he said softly. “Doing what they can’t do for themselves.”

She cried harder, so Erik caught her shudders and gasps in his arms. She’d never been able to put them anywhere before, he supposed, so it was as good a time as any. “How did he decide? Did you both agree?”

Christine wiped her eyes. “Yeah. He wanted it if he had a severe stroke, lost his sight, or he… if he…” she shook under his hands “If he lost his hearing,”

Years ago he would have thought this a strange idea. Sight, certainly but… hearing?

But now he was a musician, and he was hard pressed to imagine a harsher fate. 

“It wouldn’t have just been his hearing,” Christine continued. “If any major system showed problems, it meant the cancer was blocking blood vessels.” 

“So what happened?”

Christine snuffled a half smile and looked at him over her shoulder. “It was hard to talk after the surgeries and all the tubes, but he’d write notes. He was dropping words, or phrases were backwards, and one day he just wrote musical notations and numbers. He was so frustrated with me until he read his notes and realized something was wrong. Later, he was playing cello and couldn’t read his music.” 

Erik buried his nose in her hair. 

“Then he kept playing the same phrases over and over. Louder and louder, until he shredded the bow. He… he couldn’t hear. He could only feel the vibration in the wood and, for a little while, it was enough.”

Her hair was frazzled in sprays and mists. Erik smoothed some down and twisted it lightly into a coil. “He was so good that he could hear it through his fingers,”

“Yes,” she sighed. “But it only lasted a month. It wasn’t enough and it wasn't going to get better. So he spent all evening writing me one more note.”

Christine hugged herself and Erik joined in. She was too small. 

“We looked at his wedding album, watched videos of his concerts, my dance and singing recitals when I was little. When we were part way through my first undergrad concert,” Christine drew an unstable breath, “he tapped me on the shoulder.”

Erik held her as the words cut off. He held her when she clutched his arm and tried to crawl under his skin and shuddered through grief so profound it made you dizzy just to be near it. The years she’d spent growing up too soon-- it was so much worse than her internet profiles let on, but that was performance life for you. Casting agents knew you online before they heard your voice these days, so she’d pretended to be a ray of sunshine until she couldn’t anymore.

“It’s funny,” she hiccuped. “It wasn’t until about a month later that I realized the hospice doctor had given us exactly everything we needed to do it. I guess… I guess they knew.”

Christine pressed a soft cheek into his chest and held on, wracked by the occasional sob now rather than every breath tearing holes in her. Erik stroked her back and hummed songs she liked, songs from the radio, and whatever notes he could throw together at this hour. When the first shimmers of purpley pink lit the leaves outside, Chistine was soft and limp in his arms. He laid her down, draping her over the pillows before settling the duvet over them both.

The sleep of the innocent, Erik mused. Lead filled his limbs again as a brushstroke of peace swept the turbulence from the room. Deep water peace, clear and unrippled.

He’d never been strong for someone else before; only himself and only with Nadir’s urging. It was a thought that would have to wait-- half asleep and dreamy, Christine had scooted closer and tucked her arm by his. Coherent thought fell away as Erik offered her access to his pillow before slipping away from the edge of morning, back into dreams.

…

Reyer was branching out. The room smelled like a grim attempt at barbecue. Thankfully, other senses soon overtook the space as Erik launched into his repertoire to warm up. What a musician curated mentally said as much about their life as their musicianship. Erik’s own catalogue varied wildly, seemingly selected on the whim of a multitude.

It fit him, though. He’d lived two lives and started a third and, given the circumstances, it was little wonder that his music leaned toward the melancholy and the mad. Yet, buried deep, was a green sprout. Something new.

Haunting phrases told a story of tempered yearning. It was a sound of old loneliness, a thorny feeling to translate, so it was useful that the melody had been locked behind the walls of Erik’s mind, quietly tended until it could be dealt with. 

Sometimes the most beautiful things in this world were ones that hurt, too. The trick was twisting a thread of hope through it. Without it, sad songs were just… sad. Sad could be beautiful, he supposed, but it made getting a second booking a real problem-- venues, as a rule, didn’t pack their schedules for major depression. 

There was something that felt unbalanced about an unrelieved sad song. The music hung on you; it made the space around you sticky and full of doubt. It rather reminded Erik of Reyer’s lunches; unsatisfying and mono-dimensional, yet capable of permeating the air around it.

Resolved phrases went far to cut the sludge. Auditory rhymes, fifth intervals and major lifts. Erik was on the verge of adding the ring of hope to the song when a tapping came from the door. With a sigh he tore his hands from the keys and stood when the door opened.

“Ah, Erik,” Dr. Allen said as he came in. “I’d hoped to catch up with you. Got a minute?”

“Sure. Probably due for a break anyway.” Erik stretched his fingers and reached for his coffee. 

Allen leaned against the desk. “I got your message. And I also got one from nearly every music director in town and the dean of the music department at the university. You’ve adopted quite the project.”

Erik cradled his cup and nodded, waiting.

“I’m not saying no, I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t too much. I mean, you mentioned taking some time for upcoming court dates. You’re known for pushing the limits in general but I just want to make sure you’re not, you know… taking on too much.” 

“I’m ambitious,” Erik said flatly.

Allen flicked the metal rim of the old desk. “I don’t want to-- hell, I can’t replace you and I don’t want to try. Assembling an entirely new production of a major choral symphony with nearly a hundred performers ranging from the age of five to sixty-five while in court and holding a day job is more than ambitious, Erik.”

“The finished score is in my box account. I sent you a link. It’s bare bones when it needs to be, and full force where it matters and the court case is out of my hands. I just show up a few times.” 

Allen took a deep breath and blew the steam off his cup. “You’re going to do this by sheer force of will, aren’t you?”

Erik smiled. “It would be nice to have your support, too.”

With a soft chuckle, Allen shoved away from the desk and made his way to the door. “You know, the dean said you did stuff like this. I thought he was exaggerating.” He opened the door and turned. “Of course you have my support, though, I’m betting we’ll need a bigger auditorium. I’ll make some calls.” 

“Allen?”

He turned, nearly spilling the remains of his coffee. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. Oh, you know that big church on seventh street?” Erik waved his coffee around vaguely. “You know, the one with great acoustics?”

“Yep, why?”

“I called the pastor. He’s already agreed to let us use the space.”

“Of course he did.”

…

Nadir sipped his thick coffee and sighed. It was lovely and fragrant and might give him an edge in the game tonight. “And where is the mythical Christine tonight?”

“Home with her roommate,” Erik replied and set a plate on the drying rack. “Christine said she just got back from a trip and needed girl time.”

“Ah, a trip with the rich boyfriend?”

“Two week tour of Paris, Marseilles, Berlin, Dresden, Madrid and Barcelona.”

Nadir set down his cup and tapped at the foam. A divot formed in the froth. “A dancer, right?”

“Ballet. Christine says she’s one of the best in the country. She’s just had a tough financial patch and had to take work around here instead of Chicago or New York.”

“Well,” Nadir said as he set out the chess board. “That explains the rich boyfriend. Need a hand with the dishes?”

“They’re done. And I’m pretty sure she means to have him clear her path to the European stage.” Erik dried his hands and tossed the cloth aside. “Are you black or white tonight?”

“White. It never hurts to have a patron in your corner.” Nadir began setting the pieces. “Speaking of having people in your corner, what’s the latest news?”

Erik’s shoulders tensed minutely. “You’ll be getting a call soon to do a statement.” He rubbed under the mask and sighed. “I give my first one tomorrow.”

The chess pieces jiggled as Nadir dropped a pawn. Sloppy, he chastised himself. He hadn’t done that in years. It shouldn’t rattle him but it did. Maybe it was because it was so much more personal this time. Not for him, but for Erik. For the first time, Erik had something real to fight for and that meant some of the past could finally rest.

When his hands steadied, he set the rest of the pieces. “Does Christine know?”

“I told her. Everything.”

“Everything?”

Erik sat heavily, then carefully faced all the black pieces forward. “Everything.” 

Nadir knew when words were unsaid, but a man wears a mask because he wants to keep some things hidden. “Is she going with you tomorrow?”

“Yes, and then we’re going to rehearsal right afterwards. You’re invited if you’d like to come,” Erik watched as Nadir moved his first piece. “Zadir is coming soon. I’m sure he’d love to see you again.”

“So the Iranian master of the six string violin is making the trip?”

Erik grunted and moved a piece. “He lives in Portland. But yes, he’s passing through the area and can make a few rehearsals.”

Nadir rubbed his hands together and launched his defense. Erik was being predictable and today was his lucky day, he knew it. “Well if Zadir will be here, then I’m sure my Cara and I can make the time.”

…

Erik wanted a drink. A drink and a shower and a long, long nap. Preferably with Christine tucked against him.

But the first sectional rehearsal, with a twenty strong chorus and a thirty piece orchestra, was assembled and ready. He swallowed and adjusted the mask, butterflies flapping his ribs. 

The deposition had gone according to script. It didn’t make it much easier, but at least the questions posed had been anticipated. 

“Thank you for coming everyone. If you hadn’t guessed, this isn’t an attempt at perfection. It’s an experiment in celebration, at doing the impossible just to say we gave it a shot.” Erik shuffled his notes and shuddered for a moment at the sense memory of other papers in his hands. Reams of printouts, highlighted and full of annotation, prepared to prompt him and keep the questioning direct.

He refocused his attention. This was music. Music, not spreadsheets, memos, and a labyrinth of emails and text messages. He would be asking the questions here, and the answers would sing back.

His world. His domain. Not theirs. 

“This isn’t exactly the standard version, so double check that you’ve got the right parts and all the sheets. Right, get ready for notes.” He patted his jacket and looked around until there was a tap on his shoulder.

Christine held out his pencil. “You forgot it at the deposition. I grabbed it on the way out.”

Erik reached past the pencil and grasped her hand, cradling it close. It had been a long morning, made infinitely easier to bear with her near. The aggravations and distractions were muted as long as she was with him. He might have made it, but there was no way he could have grabbed a sandwich and immediately looked over his music notes for a rehearsal without her. Musicians around the city would be buzzing about this little display, but let them. 

Her knuckles were tender beneath his lips. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, then tapped the pencil on his stand. “Places! Alright, close enough for today. Let’s do a rough run on the fourth and fifth movements just to see where we are. Ready?”

He raised his trembling arms and gestured to the brass and strings. Bows and curved metal rose at his cue and stormed the marble walls when he flicked his wrists. Erik commanded the players through the flourishing rises and falls of the piece. The center of the action, but nothing like sitting at a painfully chic desk with a panel of staring lawyers, ready to pin you like an insect.

You had to know the text; the urtext, translation and paraphrase. The pace here determined the unfolding elsewhere, and a misstep could make a huge moment fall flat or uncover an unplanned complication. Rush and miss the delight of the transitions and crescendos; lag and risk burying the texture and contrasts in the piece. Mistakes were fine, missed notes were fine. A far greater sin was to play all the right notes but lose the piece.

Maybe lawyers felt that way about testimony, and thought cases were like performance. The very thought was disgusting and was mercifully swept away by the soprano section outdoing themselves.

Erik waved his arms. “Whoa whoa, everyone. Let's back up a few measures to the entrance.” He jotted a few notes and tapped the music stand with the pencil again to draw down the rumbles. “That was great, but imagine you’re angelic heralds, so float it in, don’t kick down the door. Again!”

From the soprano section, Christine smiled and nodded. Erik felt his soul soar and, steady and sure, held up his arms once again.

…

He let Christine drive. To be fair, she took the keys when he couldn’t find the ignition. He’d used everything left in his mental tank to storm the stones of the church with as much sound as he could squeeze from the rehearsal. 

Every bit of sound, all of it. He’d take it in and rebuild himself. The deposition had leached something vital out of him and the two hour rehearsal had put it back. Marble-polished echoes, the rumbles of the drums, throaty pulls on cello strings, and silvery gleams of voices vibrated through his bones. Despite chewing his pencil down to the lead, the work washed away the morning and left him clean and aware.

“Still with me?” Christine asked as she pulled onto his street. Their street? 

“I’m good.” Streetlights pulsed in sweeps across the dashboard, like the rise and fall of music. The rise and fall of her voice. 

The rise and fall of her body in dance, or against him in passion.

The world snapped into sharp focus. Once the car was parked, Erik circled around to meet Christine.

“Keys,” he said softly.

“What? Oh, of course.”

Erik tucked his arm around her and kept her close, could feel her warmth and how it chased the suggestion of evening chill. He managed to wait until the door was closed behind them and she backed up, leaning against it the moment he made a move toward her,

“Tired?” Erik said, tucking her hair aside.

“Wide awake,” she replied. Neither of them reached to turn on the lights and before he could consider or even recall where the switch was, Christine was on her tiptoes and he was leaning over, bracing against the door to keep from falling.

The carved details of the door cut into Erik’s palm as Christine pressed his top lip between hers. Cool air bit his throat because it was almost too much, too fast and not enough, so he nudged to get at her bottom lip and let it slip by his own. 

There is a style of singing, where two partners wind their voices together so that neither has just the melody or harmony. It requires exquisite attention and sensitivity between the partners or the illusion falls apart. The third voice they create is a mirage, a dream.

And yet, it is the tune you hum when you think of the song.

When he drew back, the dark entryway cast them in shadows cut by the broken light of the back door porch light. It illuminated Christine and the reflections in her eyes made Erik pause. He could see the outlines of his mask, but she left him no time for doubt and quickly took his mouth again.

This was the first time that kissing Christine, being with her, wasn’t an event. It was normal. A precious addition to the landscape of his life.

Erik drew back again. “Can I ask you something?” he panted as he pressed his mask lightly to her forehead.

“Mmhmm,” she crooned against his cheek.

He swallowed. “Is this… normal? Do ordinary people spend a day together and then decide it’s not enough and then do this at the end of the day?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “This? You mean...” She caught his earlobe between her teeth and trailed a finger down the front of his shirt until he shuddered.

“Yeah, that,” he sighed, twitching at her touch. “Am I... are we… normal?”

The hot breath by his ear withdrew and Christine looked up at him. Her smile was so sweet, so full of joy that Erik could feel his heart swell. When she cupped his cheek, he leaned into it.

“I really, really hope so,” Christine said, her eyes filling. “Because if everyone could be as happy as I am right now, the world would be an amazing place.”

She might have planned to say more, but the words were smothered by kisses that felt tight because Erik was smiling. Barely able to cover his teeth, and a glow warmed his face. As the heat spread, the kisses softened. Christine pushed away from the door and reached up to brush the exposed side of his face, caressing near the edge of the mask where his skin was achingly sensitive.

Her fingertips explored him, carefully lingering by his false hairline and the ridge of his brow before tracing down, following the sharp cut of his cheekbone down to the kiss. Her touch on their lips, and the sharp contrast between the hot satin of her mouth and the cool searching, now on both sides of his face, pulled a whimper from deep in Erik’s chest.

He let his fingers join hers, feeling the kiss for what it was, as sensual as lovemaking, as intimate and vulnerable as being naked. Her other hand traced the mask. 

He could do this. They were far past this. Together, they kept the kiss and left the mask on the table by his bed, discarded for the night in favor of themselves and each other. Was this normal? Maybe not, but it felt good and right. Ordinary for them, maybe. Ordinary for a third life.

Christine held him from behind and stroked his scalp, jaw, and shoulders. The aches and strains of the day melted away at her hands, then she stoked the flame in him, cupping him gently before cradling the ache between his legs until he gripped fistfuls of bedding in his trembling hands. Then he returned the favor, spreading her open and mouthing her lightly until she giggled. She stopped giggling quick enough when he began in earnest, kneading her thighs and turning his inexhaustible attention span to turning her into a swollen, creamy mess. 

He was Apollo, and she the Lyre. A symphony of touch and sense; places where the strains of love and perspective smashed together and became something more. Evenly matched and more than the sum of themselves. There was no mirage-- the illusion was real. 

Lyrics from Italian and French operas, bits from German masses, and English sonnets spilled from him as he rose up. She stretched out her arms, murmuring broken pieces of the answering phrases. They had their own language, remaking the meanings as he thrust up with a gasp. The night was intoxicating and saturated with them and he breathed it in with greedy pulls.

Rises and falls followed tempo, pulsing with feverish sensuality. Their kisses grew sloppy and hungry as the first stirs hit him. Those fingers, so curious and tentative at the edge of a kiss, now worked at the rising heat as cries in the dark grew more insistent and desperate. The hard shudders took his breath away as Christine arched up, clenching and shaking, ripping his climax from him.

Limp and ragged, Erik pulled away long enough to collapse at Christine’s side. They were red faced and sweaty, disheveled and dumb. She looked like a very satisfied hag. He didn’t want to think about what he looked like.

“I love you,” Erik said, as clearly as his fast breaths allowed. 

Christine grabbed him, dragging him back. “I love you,too. Though, you might want to work on your delivery for next time.”

He buried his face in her chest and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on saying that to anyone else.”

She gripped him tight with her thighs and sighed. “Good. Me neither.”


End file.
